


Doubling Down

by irisbleufic



Series: Come As You Are [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Arkham Asylum, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Brothers, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Complicated Relationships, Confessions, Consequences, Dark Comedy, Demisexuality, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Family, Family Drama, First Kiss, Gender Dysphoria, Gotham City Police Department, Guilt, Hidden Depths, Humor, Implied/Referenced Past Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intersex Character, Jerome Valeska Lives, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pre-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, Psychological Trauma, Queer Character, References to Misgendering in Childhood, Rescue Missions, Reunions, Self-Harm, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Soft Jeremiah Valeska, Teasing, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), Therapy, Trans Character, Twins, Ulterior Motives, Villains, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Don’t pretend this isn’t your fault, genius,” Jerome said reproachfully, loitering at the farthest corner of the holding cell from where Jeremiah sat calmly on the bench. The bridge of his nose and his left cheekbone had sustained cuts.“I don’t have time for your blame-game,” Jeremiah said, grateful [Ecco] was at the desk. “Besides, this is win-win for you. I suffer public humiliation, and our uncle’s dead.” He licked his split lip, prodding the bruised flesh beneath his right eye.Somewhere between the bailiff unlocking the cell and [Ecco] shoving a clipboard at them for signatures, the station had gained another arrival. Jeremiah had no sooner signed the form and handed it off to Jerome than his eyes fell on who it was.Bruce Wayne looked less polished than the recent photograph Jeremiah had seen. However, seeing him in motion—arguing with Gordon about how the hell he could just let Jerome go—drove home how little newsprint did him justice.
Relationships: 514A & Hugo Strange, 514A & Jerome Valeska, 514A & Kathryn Monroe, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Ecco & Jeremiah Valeska, Ecco & Jerome Valeska, Harvey Bullock & Jim Gordon, Hugo Strange & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Lila Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Thomas Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jeri & Jerome Valeska, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska & Lila Valeska, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Leslie Thompkins, Jonathan Crane & Jervis Tetch & Jerome Valeska, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tabitha Galavan/Barbara Kean, Zachary Trumble & Jeremiah Valeska, Zachary Trumble & Jerome Valeska, Zachary Trumble & Lila Valeska
Series: Come As You Are [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1313342
Comments: 80
Kudos: 142





	1. Too Little, Too Late

Jeremiah looked up from his work when Ecco returned from her errand. He’d expected more display of emotion, because he knew from years of television coverage that Jerome tended to have that effect on people. Even when they were children, it had been like that.

“Well?” Jeremiah prompted, holding the model he’d been working on. “Did Jerome accept the terms I worked out with Arkham?”

Ecco grabbed a chair on her way to Jeremiah’s desk. She spun it backwards and sat down in it, staring at him across the city in miniature.

“This isn’t the response you were hoping for,” Ecco said, “but what the hell did you _do_ to him back in the day?”

“What do you mean?” Jeremiah asked guiltily. “He’s always been like this. You know it’s part of why I left Haly’s.”

“See, that’s what I’m gettin’ at,” Ecco said, foregoing the decorous diction she used when communicating with the outside world. “You couldn’t just leave. You were _ten_. If you’d done it on your own steam, you would’ve been just one more failed run-away who got picked up by the cops a few miles from wherever the circus was parked that week. Kansas City, right?” She snatched the model out of Jeremiah’s hand and dropped it on the floor. “You look at me while I’m talkin’ to you, J. Anyhow, long story short, I figure you manipulated your mom and your uncle and probably everybody else into thinkin’ you were an angel who had to be spirited away from your terrible, horrible, no good, very bad brother.”

Jeremiah glared at her, too furious to speak. He’d always valued that Ecco could see him, _truly_ see him, but it was no advantage at a time like this.

Ecco slapped the desk, making him jump. “Did I guess right? Is that why you’re guilty as fuck? Lemme tell you, Jerome saw right through your motivations, and you weren’t even _there_. Is this some kinda creepy twin thing?”

Rolling his eyes, Jeremiah righted another of the model buildings that had fallen. Wayne Tower.

“If I know anything, it’s that there’s no use in lying to you,” he said with chagrin. “So I won’t.”

Ecco applauded him sarcastically. “Thanks so much for your candor, J. I really appreciate that.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jeremiah reminded her. “Did Jerome accept the terms offered?”

“Yeah,” Ecco said, clapping some more. “He’s in because he wants to know what’s in it for you.”

Jeremiah rubbed his neck. Jerome wasn’t known for being taken to Arkham on anyone’s terms but his own.

Tilting her head, Ecco stopped smiling. “The shame of it is, he really loved you. Maybe even still does.”

“What makes you think that?” Jeremiah asked, rearranging the models. “Did he have a message for me?”

Ecco rose, yawning. “He did say he wondered if you’d have the balls to come visit him yourself.”

Jeremiah shut himself away for the next several weeks, refusing to interact with Ecco except via text. Even in his own secret, underground home, he lacked privacy. Meanwhile, Ecco continued to monitor Jerome’s situation in Arkham with scrupulous accuracy.

“They tell me he’s takin’ his meds,” Ecco said when she finally barged in one afternoon, sick of Jeremiah’s self-imposed seclusion. “Showed me a vid from group therapy. He seems placid compared to what you usually see on the news.”

“Have you spoken to him face-to-face again since the GCPD?” Jeremiah asked. “Would he…”

“Stay calm if you came to see him?” Ecco supplied. “Beats me. That’s a chance you’ll have to take.” She glanced around them, gesturing at the bunker’s walls. “He was never gonna come after you!”

“No, he would’ve,” Jeremiah sighed, thinking of what Jerome had done to their parents. “What I did to him was unforgivable, _but_ —the past’s the past. With any luck, maybe we’ve averted a disaster.”

“For Jerome, not you,” Ecco said, leaving the room. “You need to go in, J. You owe him.”

“You honestly think I don’t know that?” Jeremiah sighed. “Fine. Make the arrangements.”

Arkham held drop-in hours on Saturdays and Sundays. So as to ensure that they’d have the visitation room to themselves, Jeremiah bought his way into some time the next Monday afternoon.

When the guards led Jerome in, Jeremiah almost couldn’t bear to look at him. The cuffs on Jerome’s hands and feet rattled as the guards settled him in the seat across from Jeremiah. Jerome’s scars were worse up close than they looked on television.

“Are you the one who took care of this?” Jerome asked, gesturing at his face as he watched Jeremiah avert his gaze. “I mean, that’s impressive. This is two separate incidents’ worth of damage. Dwight-inflicted and self-inflicted. You must have informants everywhere.”

“I obtain what information I need to provide for your care,” Jeremiah said stiffly. “Except when you died, obviously. After Galavan killed you, Uncle Zach said he couldn’t care less what happened to your body, especially not...” He sucked in his breath. “After what you did to Mom.”

“Hey,” Jerome said reproachfully, “she deserved it. Even you can’t deny that.”

“Fair,” said Jeremiah, quietly, stunned to realize he had no desire to fight what was happening. “I was escaping her as much as anything else.”

Jerome clucked his tongue, shaking his head. _Shame, shame, shame_. The imitation of their mother’s scolding was so accurate it hurt.

“You were smart like the namesake she tried to give you,” Jerome said bitterly. “Who was the only person who never played along with that charade? Never thought of you as what you weren’t, never called you by that name?”

In their mother’s eyes, Jeremiah had been Jerome’s sister until the day she died. Every letter she’d sent had addressed him as _My darling Judith_ , never once as _Jeremiah_ or _Xander_. Even though she’d assented to him leaving the circus as a boy to more effectively hide, she’d never...

Jeremiah couldn’t stand to be reminded. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “She _did_ deserve it.”

“Makes me wonder how things would’ve gone if you had, I dunno, stuck around to stick up for me the way I always stuck up for you,” Jerome mused. “I wasn’t about to let anybody pick on my brother. I mean, that was _my_ job. And you can strike me dead here and now if I _ever_ picked on you for the one thing everybody else did.”

“You had it easy in comparison,” Jeremiah said accusingly. “You know you always did. I was too pretty and quiet,” he spat, “even when I cut my hair and dressed in your clothes.”

“Hey, not anymore,” Jerome said. “Looks like you did your whole transition thing or whatever just right. If not for all this—“ he gestured at the scars on his face and neck “—who could tell us apart? Just goes to show you I really _was_ the handsome one.”

“You wish,” Jeremiah said, hating that he couldn’t help but smile.

“Anyway, that’s how you got away with murder,” Jerome said. “Incorrigible. Pinned everything on me and ran off to start the life nobody would let you have. I’ve gotta say, your self-preservation is a work of art.” He chef-kissed his fingers. “It’s a pity you did it at my expense, though. Just imagine what we could’ve—“

“I’m not interested in could-have-beens!” Jeremiah snapped. “I can’t change any of that!”

Jerome tapped his chin. “You sure want me to believe the whole reparations angle. Even if you were being honest about it? It’s too little, too late.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Jeremiah retorted. “Kill me as soon as you’re paroled? Where’d be the fun in that? I have connections to the one family in this city you enjoy tormenting at everyone else’s expense.”

“I’m not sure one rich orphan and his hoity-toity butler count as a family,” Jerome scoffed, “but— _wait_. What connections?”

Jeremiah smirked and sat back, removing his glasses. He pocketed them unhurriedly, enjoying Jerome’s consternation.

“Bruce’s father commissioned the architectural firm that hired me right out of college. I designed Wayne Plaza on behalf of Meyer & Hayes.”

“I’ll be damned,” Jerome said, sitting back and folding his hands. “Speaking of Brucie, have you _met_ that insufferable brat? Nah, wait, I know you haven’t. If you had, you would’ve strangled him yourself. We’d be locked up in here together, two peas in a loony bin. Did you know they’ve got me on, like, three anti-psychotics and this bright yellow one that shuts your brain off so you can sleep? I bet you made a point of directing these magic drug-tweaks because _you’re_ on the same shit and know it works with our genetics.”

“Sure, we have nearly identical XY chromosomes, but you know I came with a feature you didn’t. One gene switched off. Externally, I _looked_ for all intents and purposes like a girl. Even transitioning was hard, because the testosterone dosage was so difficult to—”

“Yeah, they’ve been explaining all that to me in therapy,” Jerome said, waving his hand to indicate boredom. “Your default setting means you don’t fully respond to androgens, blah blah blah. You’re dodging the question. Are you on the head-meds or not?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah huffed. “They don’t produce any of the side effects in me that you hated about the cocktail they were giving you the last time you were here. So I gave them a full list of my prescriptions, minus anything hormone-related. That’s what you’re getting, the bright yellow ones for sleep and anxiety included. I’ll tell you what they’re all called if you like.”

Jerome twisted his fingers together against the table. “I’m tired of talking to this guy,” he said to the guards, who had been whispering to each other ever since Jeremiah’s clinical rant. “ _Pssst_ , Pendleton. Rude. Hey, Harris—get him out of here, will ya?”

“Does that mean you don’t want to see me anymore?” asked Jeremiah, as the guard named Harris showed him out. “I’d been hoping—”

“The thing with feathers Dickinson wrote about? Good luck with that,” Jerome said, giving Jeremiah a familiar little wave. “I’ve been readin’ the poetry books in the rec room. Let me do my time in peace. Afterward? We’ll see.”

Jeremiah couldn’t help but dwell on the encounter over the coming weeks. According to Ecco’s reports, Jerome was opening up more and more each time she went to see him. The amusement in her voice wasn’t easy to take. It fed Jeremiah’s ongoing resentment.

Jeremiah also couldn’t help venting to Ecco. When had Jerome found the time to read nineteenth-century American poetry? Or decided he was willing to let his therapist explain what Jeremiah’s biological-sex variation was, and even take the time to _understand_ it?

“Oh, I dunno,” Ecco said, clearing Jeremiah’s take-out containers from the desk, “about the time he decided crashing Pride was a great idea last summer? Everybody says he has a thing for Bruce Wayne, but I’ve gotta admit…” She paused. “Your brother’s attempting to work himself out, and it ain’t goin’ well. Stupid, how he went about it. Wrong person, wrong angle. _You_ can divorce emotions from desire, but I don’t think _he_ can. He doesn’t love Bruce, but he’s been tryin’ awful hard to convince himself he _wants_ him. Like it’d help him feel a teensy bit normal.”

Jeremiah rubbed his temples. He didn’t relish the thought of returning to the phase in which he and Ecco had been sad, queer besties venting their frustrations about crushes and infatuations that went nowhere.

“You should go back to school,” Jeremiah said. “You’d make a good psychiatrist. You’re fired.”

“For that to stick, I’d have to stop payin’ myself on your behalf,” Ecco sneered. “No thanks.”

“Then keep your insights on Jerome’s romantic and sexual orientations to yourself,” Jeremiah muttered, turning the page of his newspaper. He hadn’t seen a photograph of Bruce Wayne in quite some time, not one this close-up and current. 

Jeremiah couldn’t help but think that the striking young man looked nothing like his father.

“Hey, I read that story,” Ecco said, tapping the paper. “There was some kinda fuss about two and a half years ago. One of those monsters that got loose when Fish Mooney busted ’em out of Indian Hill supposedly looked just like Bruce. That butler, Alfredo or whatever? That’s what his report to the GCPD said when this clone, or whatever it was, stole one of Bruce’s cars.”

Jeremiah tuned out what Ecco was saying, paying closer attention to the article surrounding Bruce’s photograph. It was accurate, what Jerome had said—part of it. Jeremiah had never met Bruce. He’d admired the young man’s tenacity at a distance, based on what he’d read and seen in the media. Jerome was likely wrong about the risk of strangling.

“Alfred Pennyworth,” Jeremiah said, correcting Ecco’s name mix-up, reading to the end of the text. “Also, it says here that both the butler and the heir have distanced themselves from that claim. Didn’t that happen at a time when Bruce’s public image was suffering?”

“Turn the page. All these fuckin’ Christmas ads, ugh. Can’t wait for December to end,” Ecco said, doing it for him. “See? It goes on. Long story short, a couple of Strange’s victims—escapees that survived Gordon’s bounty hunter phase—are pressing charges against the state. So, D.A. Dent sent somebody into those creepy tunnels underneath Arkham and had ’em retrieve a bunch of files…”

Jeremiah skimmed the remainder of the article. Records suggested that the late Kathryn Monroe, former head of the Court of Owls, had done something drastic to prove her loyalty. In the spring, it would be eighteen years since she’d entered into an agreement with Strange, then the lead researcher at Wayne Enterprises subsidiary Pinewood Farms, to engage in a surrogacy experiment.

“They’re saying it’s not a clone,” said Jeremiah, with exasperated disinterest. “At best, Bruce had a biologically-engineered, bastard half-sibling who, also according to the files, is probably dead by now.” He closed the paper and handed it to Ecco. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. You were telling me Jerome is struggling with more than just his sanity?”

Ecco nodded, folding her arms. “Yeah, but you said you didn’t wanna hear my insights.”

“There’s a difference between painful detail and reporting the big picture. I need to know.”

“Then you’re gonna have to put up with some analysis, J,” Ecco said. “That’s what I _do_.”

Jerome rubbed his temples, staring at the battered desktop. “Okay. What are you suggesting?”

“Jerome stopped lovin’ everyone in your family when they gave up on him,” Ecco said. “He told me that. But for some reason, he remains fond of you. Like maybe he understands you were a kid and didn’t think your actions through. He’s still mad, but he understands your life was in danger from assholes who don’t understand folks like us. I think he’s tryin’ to come to terms with the fact he’s part of that _us_. Hell, if I didn’t pass, you know I might be dead. Town like this? Penguin and Nygma are proof that you can be as gay as you goddamn want, but being like _us_?”

Removing his glasses, Jeremiah finally looked up at her. “To my knowledge, Jerome isn’t—”

“C’mon, J,” Ecco said. “You know havin’ a relationship to sexuality like his is one more thing that makes shrinks call you crazy.”

“Well, he _is_ insane,” Jeremiah insisted, “and he enjoyed reminding me that I am, too.”


	2. Trade-Offs

Under Jeremiah’s arrangement, Jerome found Arkham less chaotic than it had once been—which, in part, meant less _fun_. There were trade-offs, though. He’d never had a room with windows, not even in the caravan when he was younger. His cell had two.

There weren’t cockroaches like you got in the ground-level cell blocks. Jerome had never let on how much he despised them, which was easier said than done when the mere sight of one made his flesh crawl. That in and of itself was less pleasant given some of his skin had been stitched back in place and didn’t process sensation the same way as before. _Nothing_ felt quite the same.

Jerome was mistrustful of the ugly armchair, side-table that looked like it had been fished out of a dumpster, and the stack of books. He wondered if it was a lucky guess on Jeremiah’s part that Jerome had enjoyed reading Clive Barker and Stephen King.

Then again, not likely. Jerome actually _had_ been a Gotham Public Library patron. Hell, he technically still was. They didn’t revoke your card when you got sent to the funny farm. All Jeremiah would’ve had to have done was wheedle Jerome’s borrowing history out of the librarians.

Well, scratch that. Harley would’ve had to have done it for him, and she’d obviously succeeded. She was so likable that even Jerome found himself speaking more freely with her than he’d ever spoken with _anyone_.

Maybe it was her calm competence in the face of insanity. That skillset was a given if she’d been working with Jeremiah for the past six years. She was probably bonkers, too, and Jerome intended to find out.

“Why does he call you Ecco?” asked Jerome, one afternoon about three months into his sentence. “It doesn’t really suit. Why do you let him?”

Harley folded her hands calmly against the tabletop. She tilted her head at him disapprovingly.

“Use your brain. With a last name like Eccles, I picked up some wacky nicknames. That was the only one I could tolerate. After I dropped out of my program and went to work in that coffee shop across from campus, somebody let it slip to my co-workers. They started callin’ me that, too. I met your brother because he was a regular customer while he was finishin’ his grad degree. We figured out we had some stuff in common.”

Jerome grinned, tapping his temples. “Lemme guess. You had all the same screws loose?”

Harley laughed. “Fuck, nah, I’ve got different screws loose than J. It was mostly the other stuff.”

Mind racing, Jerome engaged in some quick deduction. “Both gayer than a picnic basket?”

“No shit, Sherlock. That was part of it,” Harley agreed. “C’mon, I know you can get this.”

Being queer was definitely the linchpin, Jerome realized. And that was when he got it.

“Wrong…gender assignment at birth?” Jerome ventured, using the language his therapist had been drilling into him for purposes of discussing his brother. “Huh, wouldn’t it just figure. That sucks.”

“Yep,” Harley agreed, looking subdued, yet pleased with him, “but it sucks less when you’ve got somebody to bitch with. I mean, my situation doesn’t have an intersex variation muddying the water, but trans is trans regardless your biology.” She tilted her head again, appraising him. “Got any issues with that? Were you relieved that was the one thing different between you?”

Jerome glanced sidelong out the window. He was about to say more than he’d ever shared with his therapist. Sighing, he shrugged.

“Never saw any point in getting bent out of shape. I mean…” Jerome fixed her with a hard look. “The way I felt when we were kids was…okie-doke, might as well bite the bullet. I used to think it would’ve been easier if we’d both been born like that. Both born so they thought we’d grow up to be girls. I dunno, might’ve even been easier if we’d both been born like me. Even playing field. Is this makin’ sense?”

“No matter what your bodies were like,” Harley said, a touch defensive, “one or the other of you might still have known they were a girl, or a boy, or…whatever. I sometimes think about the whatever. Some days, I don’t even feel like a girl.” She narrowed her eyes, usually an indication she was swooping in for the kill. “Do you have days like that?”

Jerome was taken aback. He had to think about that for a while before answering. One thing was certain: Ms. Harley Quinn Eccles, a.k.a. Ecco, had razor-sharp wit and hidden depths.

“Never felt like a girl,” he said, pushing away the childhood memory of what had happened the one time _he’d_ worn _Jeremiah’s_ clothes. “Now I consider it, though, there are days when I don’t feel like anything. Not even human. I guess it’s like this, Doc. Most days, I feel like a guy, but there’s all this…disgust. Easier not to be human, y’know?”

Harley said something under her breath that sounded like _agender tendencies, interesting_. She scribbled a little more in her notebook. Jerome knew full well she was making painfully detailed reports to Jeremiah. He had his reasons for letting that happen.

“I do,” Harley said at length. “Not to get all up in your grill, but it’s time for me to ask one of the questions Detective Gordon wasn’t so tactful about. If you don’t wanna answer, I’m not gonna make you. But even J spills to me eventually.”

Jerome rolled his eyes. “You’d like to know if I have a _thing_ for Bruce Wayne, is that it?”

Harley waved her pen at him in a cautioning, _tick-tick_ motion. That reminded Jerome a lot of Tetch and his two-bit hypnosis tricks, and a little of Crane’s perpetual, scathing judginess.

“Not exactly,” Harley clarified. “I just wanna know how you feel when you think about him. When he’s in front of you, when you’re interactin’ with him. That kinda stuff. What’s your gut say?”

Considering the two experimental kisses he’d staged, as well as Bruce’s glib reaction to the _DTF_ shirt, Jerome’s burning curiosity faded to contempt. All he’d succeeded in doing was making the wrong kind of fool of himself.

“Used to think we had chemistry,” Jerome muttered. “None of that mushy stuff, ya know? Seemed like maybe I could use him to see if…”

“If you’re capable of feeling sexual attraction?” Harley prodded further, her tone reassuringly neutral.

Jerome loathed himself for nodding, but he couldn’t help it. She deserved his honesty even if Jeremiah didn’t.

“So there was something you found attractive about him, but not for that,” Harley said. “It is what it is. No value-judgment attached.” She took more notes. “Are you sure you don’t love him?”

Inwardly, Jerome recoiled from the question. Outwardly, he opted for laughing in her face.

“The only kind of love I _ever_ felt was for my family. Turned out they didn’t deserve it.”

“Fine, you’ve never experienced romantic love,” Harley said. “Familial love, but only before they turned out to be fuckheads.” Her expression softened to a degree that was jarringly out of place in her otherwise no-nonsense demeanor. “I love your brother. He’s the only family I have. I’d do anything for him, and not just because he pays me. We have each other’s backs, come what may. I know you were hoping it would always be like that with you and J. I can see in your eyes it hurts you to hear that, so don’t bother denying it. I’m gonna ask you one more question, and it’s a though one. Knowing what I’ve been to him, do you wanna kill me?”

How despicably clever, that Harley knew how to ask _Do you still love Jeremiah?_ without phrasing it like that. She was good.

“Hand in your resignation,” Jerome said with bitter sarcasm. “Go back to school. Batshit folks like me need more shrinks like you.”

“I take it that’s a yes,” Harley sighed, closing her notebook. She got to her feet, put the notebook in her bag, and adjusted her ribbon choker. She paused mid-adjustment, fingers poised on the wide black satin. “Wanna find out?”

“Find out what?” Jerome asked, staring up at her with his arms folded.

Harley came around to his side of the table, which caused Pendleton and Harris to tense up like nobody’s business. She sat down in the chair next to Jerome, and then mimicked an untying motion at the back of her neck.

“What you asked me the first day we met,” Harley said, cracking an apologetic smile. “After what I put you through today, I owe you one.”

Jerome twitched his fingers indecisively, finally deciding there might just be a point to the exercise. What had started out as a joke meant to rattle her suddenly seemed rife with meaning.

Harley sat perfectly still as Jerome reached behind her neck and unfastened the choker. It had a metal slide clasp instead of bow-tied ends, which made the job that much quicker. As the ribbon fell away, Harley turned her head sharply to the right, bringing her index finger up to point out a scar much nastier-looking than the one Galavan’s knife had given Jerome.

“This is why I dropped out of school and ended up in that coffee shop,” she said. “God only knows why I thought shooting myself in the neck instead of the head was the way to go, but I’d gotten shit-faced to the point of alcohol poisoning just so offin’ myself would feel festive. My daddy left behind an old Colt revolver, so I popped a bullet in and spun the wheel of fortune. I got the bullet on first try. Didn’t even miss. But it didn’t kill me. Just kinda got...lodged in there, in the bone. Roommate heard the shot, ran to me, called 9-1-1 right away. Gotham General dug out the bullet and pumped my stomach. No lasting damage and a shit-ton of shame. I couldn’t show my face back at GU. Now you know my deal.”

Jerome couldn’t think of anything to say except, “I’m kinda disappointed your head didn’t fall off, but...” He sighed and put the choker back on her, adjusting it to cover the scar. “If you tell anybody I’m glad you didn’t succeed, _that’s_ when I’ll kill you.” 

Harley broke into the kind of unhinged, gleeful smile that Jerome liked to see. She unfastened the choker and handed it back to him.

“Throw it away or keep it for luck,” she said indifferently, shouldering her bag tighter. “I feel like maybe I don’t need it anymore.”

Jerome sat staring at the ribbon in his hands long after she’d walked out. Pendleton and Harris were whispering to each other again. 

“Confiscate this,” Jerome said menacingly, tucking the ribbon in his pocket as they approached him, “and I’ll shove your badges down your throats.”

The entire time he was being led by the guards back to the mealtime-slash-general recreation area, Jerome fumed. How gallingly inconvenient, to realize Harley had been telling the truth for three whole months about Jeremiah wanting to make amends. That was even more painful than what Jerome had suspected at the outset, which was that Jeremiah was doing this just to torment him.

Tetch and Crane were waiting at their usual table—as was their co-conspirator, none other than the fabled Hugo Strange. Around a month and a half back, Fish Mooney had emerged from hiding and gone to Harvey Bullock with a deal. She’d give up Strange if she got to keep her freedom.

Upon capture, Strange had been locked up in the very institution he’d once run. Quimby’s directorship of Arkham was, to him, both a blight and a personal affront. He wanted to escape, and he’d swiftly found the only parties organized enough to already be in cahoots with the same objective.

Now, as Jerome took his seat at the head of the table, he couldn’t meet any of their eyes. It wasn’t a trick. Three more months, and parole was attainable. He’d have his brother again, or at least a starting-point from which they could work back to some semblance of family.

“You missed today’s deplorable excuse for a lunch,” Strange said, not looking up from his book. “Anything enlightening?” 

“Nah, she just yakked my ear off,” Jerome said, which was only half untrue. “I think she’s run outta pseudo-shrink material.”

“Three-quarters of a B.A. in Psychology does not a psychiatrist make,” Strange sighed, lowering his paperback to the table. “She was a student of mine at Gotham University at the time of her unfortunate...injury.”

“Did you finally win her over, bend her willing ear?” Tetch asked expectantly. 

“Did you ask the favor and make our intentions clear?” Crane added, ever critical.

Jerome measured his expression, letting them stew nervously while he considered his options. He no longer wanted to manipulate Harley into being the outside accomplice to their escape. He no longer wanted to involve her in _anything_ involving these three maliciously overeager hacks.

“Uh, no,” Jerome said, laughing to mask his unease. “She’s been oblivious to every attempt I’ve made to get through to her. Loyal to my bro through and through, which doesn’t say much about her smarts. I think we dodged a bullet.”

“That’s precisely why you must keep trying,” Strange cajoled, “and precisely why the payment we’re offering you remains so very necessary.”

Jerome felt something akin to despair at the thought of letting them carry out the fate they’d devised for Jeremiah. Perhaps it was helplessness, or fear on his brother’s behalf. That Jerome was capable of empathy in select cases felt shameful.

“I hate to break it to ya, gents,” Jerome said, “but that horse ain’t gonna run. I got so disgusted with her I told her not to come back. Besides, I really wanna find out what happens in the last few books of _Dark Tower_.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” said Tetch. “Seeing as we’re doing our parts, while you’ve left us in the lurch.”

“Un-sportsmanlike indeed,” Crane intoned, looking to Strange. “The punishment should fit the crime.”

Strange fixed Jerome with a smile so serene and self-assured that it was eerie. He spread his hands in feigned supplication.

“You do leave us in something of a bind. Therefore, let me make an offer so straightforward even someone like you can understand. Doubtless, you’ll be getting out well before we manage to find an alternative point-person on the outside. Unless you undertake the specific task I’m about to ask, we’ll ignore the disappointingly obvious reservations you’re now having and target Jeremiah anyway.”

Jerome wanted to shove one of the cafeteria-issue plastic sporks through Strange’s eye, but he realized three against one wasn’t great odds. He shrugged, gesturing for Strange to continue. His heart-rate ratcheted up a few notches.

“There’s one particular subject I was sad to lose when Ms. Mooney staged _her_ jailbreak. You’re not going to believe me when I describe him, but every word of it is true. I’d like you either destroy him or bring him to me, depending on my whereabouts at the time of capture.”

Jerome didn’t derive as much pleasure at the thought of killing as he usually might, given what the terms of his release were likely to be. 

Strange seemed to know it, too. “You have this moment, and this moment only, to make up your mind.”

“Deal,” Jerome said, shaking Strange’s hand. “What’s this runaway science-fair experiment look like?”


	3. Damage Done

Nothing could have surprised Jeremiah more than the collect call he got roughly forty-eight hours after Ecco’s—no, _Harley’s_ , as she was insisting on her self-chosen legal name again—most productive Arkham visit to date. He accepted the charges.

“Hello, brother,” Jerome said on the end of the line, gruffer than he’d sounded at Jeremiah’s sole visit of several months before. “Got a minute, or are you neck-deep in your nerd stuff?”

“I have as much time as Warden Quimby’s giving you,” said Jeremiah, rolling his eyes at Harley as she stood there silently clapping her hands. “Has something happened, or are you just bored?”

“Hey, that’s funny,” Jerome said, clearing his throat. The odd, hitched sound was as unnerving as the first time Jeremiah had heard it. “Thought maybe I’d, uh…like you to come in next time.”

“With Ecco?” Jeremiah blurted, heart skipping a beat when Harley glared at him for the slip.

“You better not call her that anymore when she’s in earshot,” Jerome cautioned. “She might slit your throat.”

“Answer the question,” Jeremiah insisted testily. “Do you want me to come _with_ her, or—”

“I want you to come _instead_ of her,” replied Jerome, almost petulantly, “from now on.”

“Oh,” Jeremiah said, experiencing relief and apprehension in equal measure. “Okay. Sure.”

“Man of few words,” said Jerome, lapsing into dubious affability. “I like it. See ya soon.”

Jeremiah stared at the phone for a few seconds after Jerome hung up, wondering if his brother was in earnest. At best, it meant Jerome had decided to trust him. At worst, it meant Jerome had decided they were going to play the game _his_ way.

“You read my assessment,” Harley said, indicating her notebook still open on Jeremiah’s desk.

“Opening up, seeming vulnerable,” Jeremiah sighed. “Could be genuine, could be a ruse. He’s more of a shapeshifter than when we were kids.”

“How ’bout you pick that apart?” Harley asked, folding her arms as she came a few steps closer.

Jeremiah dropped the phone in its cradle. “Jerome always wore his heart on his sleeve. _He_ was the sensitive one, but people treated us like _I_ was.”

“They thought you were just the sweetest little tomboy,” Harley mocked. “You did a number on somebody pretty sincere. Remember that time when you two turned nine, a year before you left? You hid so you wouldn’t get beaten by the snake guy like Jerome. Yeah, he told me about that. He was always the one who used to cry, wasn’t he? The times you both got beat, remind me— _you_ hardly ever made a sound?”

Jeremiah threw the notebook at her in a fit of pique, annoyed when she caught it against her chest and started to cackle. It was bad enough she had so much else in common with Jerome, let alone the tendency toward malicious laughter.

“You’ve made your point,” Jeremiah snapped. “Even though I was arguably in more danger, I always withstood the pain better than he could.”

“Yeah, and you got _even_ ,” Harley sneered. “What happened to the snake guy again?”

“I felt guilty, but didn’t want to admit that not taking Jerome to hide with me was wrong, so…”

“You killed the bastard, huh? Jerome told me he remembered hearing that dude was found dead a few days later. He said it made him feel better.”

Pressing his fingertips into his closed eyelids, Jerome nodded. “Mom kept opiates around. Not hard to dump an entire bottle into somebody’s unfinished piss beer, especially when you know he’ll take it with him in the morning. Bitter enough to mask the taste.”

“Jeez, J,” Harley said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk, patting his head. “You’re _bad_.”

Jeremiah shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I was already plotting my escape. Least I could do.”

“I mean, your brother’s pretty bad, too,” Harley continued, shrugging in kind, “but so am I.”

Over the remainder of spring into summer, Jeremiah’s twice-monthly visits to Arkham had their ups and downs. Jerome had been taking his medication, but he needed higher doses of gabapentin than Jeremiah did—for nerve pain on top of difficulty sleeping.

Jeremiah listened patiently to Jerome’s rant about how Stephen King had given _Dark Tower_ a cop-out ending, but he had no idea what Jerome meant. He’d never read the series. Fortunately, Jerome was too busy monologuing to expect a response.

It took another five months instead of another three to stabilize him. Quimby grudgingly honored the terms to which Jeremiah had forced him to agree. Information was worth a great deal, and Quimby’s skeletons, while different from Strange’s, were just as plentiful.

Harley tagged along on the day they went to collect Jerome. She hugged Jerome so long and hard that he looked shell-shocked, but not put-out.

Meanwhile, Jeremiah made no move to do the same—at least not until Jerome slung an arm roughly around Jeremiah’s neck and kissed his hair.

“Aw, makes ya just wish I’d brought the nice camera, doesn’t it?” Harley taunted them both.

Jerome didn’t think he had any right to be taking over the spare room Harley used when she stayed at the bunker instead of heading to her apartment in the city. Harley dumped his bag of possessions on the floor, told him to shut the fuck up, and that was that.

Jeremiah was grateful to Harley for everything she did to ensure that enough provisions for two regularly reached the bunker. Jerome didn’t emerge from his room for anything except to grab food and retreat again for about the first two weeks.

During week three, it was routine for Jeremiah to find his work interrupted by Jerome wandering through to gawk at his blueprints, mess with his models, and scramble the bookcase while raiding it for reading material.

By the tail-end of his fourth week sharing Jeremiah’s space, Jerome had read every single work of fiction occupying the bottom two shelves. He dumped the last few unhappily on Jeremiah’s desk, leaning down so he could get right in Jeremiah’s face.

“You’ve gotta help me understand something. Why don’t we move outta here? It’s not like you need to protect yourself from _me_ anymore.”

While Jerome pitched into hysterics at his own wisecrack, Jeremiah sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The temptation to draw his handgun from the desk and point it at Jerome was entirely too strong. Maybe _he_ needed medication adjustments, too.

“How about because it’d cost me Harley’s yearly salary, and then some, to get us a new place?”

“I told her she should quit. You don’t need her around here. She needs to go back to school.”

Jeremiah gaped at him. “I told her the same thing around the time you were sent to Arkham.”

“See?” Jerome asked, tapping Jeremiah’s forehead. “We still think the same.” He frowned as Jeremiah shoved off his index finger. “But the $64,000 question is, do _you_ still think the same when it comes to the shit I never dared to do, but wanted to do—and that you _did_?”

Jeremiah wasn’t feeling up to a discussion of their childhood, so he fixed Jerome with a glare.

“Why do you want to move into the city?” he asked. “The Warden said non-institutional isolation would be beneficial, at least for a while. Ecco—”

“Wow, how the hell hasn’t she killed you yet? _Harley_ —”

“Harley and I are preparing you to ease back into civilian life.”

“When did either of us participate in _that_?” Jerome scoffed. “There’s nothing to ease back into when you were never part of it in the first place.”

Jeremiah gathered his contracts and shoved them in a folder. He hated Jerome for being right.

“You would be under house-arrest for a while whether we lived out here or in the city proper. Now, I’m going to ask you again, _why_ do you want—”

“I made a mistake, all right?” Jerome shouted, sounding abruptly, heartbreakingly young.

Jeremiah blinked, set the folder aside, and got to his feet. “What…kind of mistake, exactly?”

Jerome started to pace in front of Jeremiah’s desk, agitatedly chewing the side of his thumb.

“You heard Strange got locked up while I was in there, right? What am I saying, of course you did. _You_ watch everything. Anyway, before I decided I felt bad for doubting your motives, they sorta…sucked me into an escape plot. I backed out, though, after that one heart-to-heart I had with Ms. Quinn. D’you think she ought to change her last name to that? Anyway, they…”

Jeremiah grabbed Jerome’s elbow, halting him in his tracks. “They did what? Threatened you?”

“No, threatened _you_ ,” Jerome said, “unless I did Strange a solid. Tracked down somebody for him, some living experiment from Indian Hill.”

“You’re a living experiment of his, arguably,” Jeremiah said. “He’s the one who froze you.”

“Rub it in, why don’t ya. Listen, this is gonna sound crazy— _heh_ , but there’s this guy—”

Harley crackled over the intercom. “I hate to interrupt your bickerin’, boys, as entertaining as it is—but you’ve gotta turn on the news. I was hopin’ they’d contain the situation so I wouldn’t have to tell you two, but…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jeremiah muttered, ignoring Jerome’s snicker as he went to the bank of television monitors. He switched one to Channel Five and one to Channel Nine, too distracted to seek out any of the national outlets.

“That’s the one I used,” Jerome said, pointing to the latter. His uneasy smile turned grim as they watched. “You know,” he said, tapping the glass with his finger, obscuring the ticker that was saying something about an Arkham breakout, “this is why the errand matters.”

“You think Strange is the one who got out?” Jeremiah asked. “Will he come after you? Us?”

“Not as long as I can prove I’m actively hunting down his, uh, indiscretion,” Jerome replied.

Jeremiah shook his head. “This is exactly why we’re staying. You’re not going to hunt down anybody. I don’t want to know who the target is, and I don’t want to know what you were supposed to do when you found them.”

“Kill him, naturally,” Jerome sighed, swiping the folder off Jeremiah’s desk as he left. “Duh.”

“Bring it _back_ , Jerome!” Jeremiah called after him. “I haven’t finished working on those!”

“I’ve exhausted almost everything else to read around here!” Jerome called back. “Sacrifices!”

Jeremiah fobbed off stacks of his old introductory engineering and architecture textbooks on Jerome so he’d be able to work in peace. He interspersed some of his maze-puzzle books with them, for when Jerome got tired of reading.

After three days in which neither Jeremiah, nor Harley saw Jerome at all, Jerome marched up to Jerome’s desk with all of the puzzles solved.

“That was…unexpectedly quick,” Jeremiah admitted, flipping through them a second time.

“Got any you’ve drawn lately?” Jerome asked almost sheepishly. “Like when we were kids?”

Jeremiah dug out the master copies of his most difficult designs and had Harley photocopy them. Jerome went back to his room with a bundle.

“Betcha never saw that comin’, huh?” asked Harley, smugly, when they were alone again.

“Once, I might’ve tried to claim he had no aptitude for it,” Jeremiah muttered. “Shut up.”

The next fortnight felt like treading water, which was an experience altogether alien to Jeremiah. He’d never felt anxious or stir-crazy in his own space. Maybe it was Jerome’s restlessness beginning to rub off on him. They’d often had that effect on each other as children.

While Jeremiah continued to work to his deadlines, Harley refreshed Jerome’s memory on how to play chess. Evening matches suggested he was a quick study on this front, too, and far better than he’d been when they were children. He’d always hated being beaten by Jeremiah.

On Saturday evening of the next week, Jeremiah’s monitors notified him of a guest seconds before Harley informed him over the intercom.

Jerome joined Jeremiah in front of the monitors, his intrigued expression dissolving into fury when he realized who it was.

When Jeremiah initiated contact over the intercom, Uncle Zach insisted he was dropping by because he’d heard Jerome had been discharged from Arkham. No matter how he insisted that this kind of visit was once in a blue moon, Jerome pushed back against letting him in.

Jeremiah hadn’t seen Zach in a while, so he opened the elevator.

Jerome gave Jeremiah a shove before storming out of the room.

What came next unfolded so fast that Jeremiah didn’t have time to react. Tetch and Crane entered the frame, shot Zach, and got into the elevator.

Harley initiated emergency lockdown the instant Jeremiah started shouting for her to do so. Jerome skulked back into the room, asking what he’d missed. Stressed and irate, Jeremiah gave him a shove in return, which led to the first physical altercation they’d had since childhood.

By the time GCPD arrived on-scene, extracted the perps, and were escorted down by Harley to take statements, the damage was done.

Gordon and Bullock couldn’t seem to believe Jerome was alive after having been off-radar for that much time since his release.

Jeremiah did his best to give brief, evasive responses, whereas Jerome wouldn’t respond at all. While Strange’s lackeys were Arkham-bound, Gordon decided to haul Jeremiah and Jerome into the station until they decided to give clearer answers.

“Don’t pretend this isn’t your fault, genius,” Jerome said reproachfully, loitering at the farthest corner of the holding cell from where Jeremiah sat calmly on the bench. The bridge of his nose and his left cheekbone had sustained cuts.

“I don’t have time for your blame-game,” Jeremiah said, grateful Harley was at the desk. “Besides, this is win-win for you. I suffer public humiliation, and our uncle’s dead.” He licked his split lip, prodding the bruised flesh beneath his right eye.

Somewhere between the bailiff unlocking the cell and Harley shoving a clipboard at them for signatures, the station had gained another arrival.

Jeremiah had no sooner signed the form and handed it off to Jerome than his eyes fell on who it was.

Bruce Wayne looked less polished than the recent photograph Jeremiah had seen. However, seeing him in motion—arguing with Gordon about how the hell he could just let Jerome go—drove home how little newsprint did him justice.

Off the end of an explanation, Gordon was saying, as he led Bruce over, “This is the brother.”

Jeremiah was only dimly aware of Jerome dropping the clipboard as Bruce offered his hand.

“Brucie,” Jerome said, eyeing them as they shook in greeting. “Guess you two haven’t met.”

“Mr. Valeska,” Bruce said, unfairly composed. He acknowledged Jerome with a sidelong glance. “Thank you for…being there for Jerome.”

“Not sure what else I was supposed to do,” Jeremiah replied, taken with Bruce’s restless eyes.

“I’m right here,” Jerome said, folding his arms. “Can you believe this?” he asked Harley.

“Jim suspects you may know what Strange is after,” Bruce said to Jerome. “Is that true?”

Jerome stared at Bruce for a few seconds, and then at Jeremiah. His expression telegraphed indecision and resentment in equal measure.

“No idea,” Jerome said, striding toward the station door. “Gotta go. You crazy kids have fun.”

“Excuse him,” Jeremiah sighed, offering Bruce his full attention. “If I can be of any help…”

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ _kidding_ me,” said Harley, walking the clipboard back to the desk.

Bruce offered Jeremiah an apologetic nod, his eyes earnest. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”


	4. Devil's Due

Jerome shoved his hands in his pockets, drawing up the hood of the zippered sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Jeremiah.

As for what had driven him from the station, it couldn’t have been more obvious that Jeremiah was moon-eyed over Bruce. Jerome wondered how long that had been the case, because he knew for a fact that the only Wayne his brother had ever met was Thomas.

That sheaf of newspaper clippings in the top drawer of Jeremiah’s desk, though, weighed down by a shockingly practical handgun. There was a year’s worth of them, each and every story following Bruce’s public misadventures. _Those_ had been enlightening.

Jerome ducked into an alley about five blocks from the station. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, and even those weren’t his.

There were places in the city sympathetic to him, most of which had cropped up during the year following his death. They were clandestine underground gatherings, plus a Narrows nightclub owned by some middle-aged broad with a punk band.

What had Strange told Jerome the place was called—Celestial Garden? He could almost picture the entrance, prominent and two-storied, hunkered beneath a rapid-transit bridge. It wasn’t too far from that eponymous dive run by the Sirens, which…

Needless to say, about an hour later, Barbara and Tabitha weren’t happy to see him. He told them, even as Tabitha had him pinned to the wall with her whip wrapped around his neck, that it was a shame they didn’t smile more.

“You had better manners back when you were being creepy at me in Arkham,” Barbara taunted.

Jerome scrabbled at the whip’s coils, finding it difficult to breathe. “Uh, _yeah_. I was naïve.”

“Shame you didn’t stay how you were back when we lived with Theo during our Maniax days,” Tabitha said. “He almost made a gentleman of you.”

Jerome rolled his eyes, getting his fingers far enough beneath the coils to remove them.

“Jeez, who’s the one who was really naïve?” he scoffed, flinging the whip back at Tabitha.

Barbara was on him in a flash, one shockingly strong forearm shoved against his windpipe.

“I’m gonna give you ten seconds to explain why the hell you came here,” she said sweetly.

“Well, uh…” Jerome cleared his throat, which made Barbara back down a fraction. “You might not have heard, but I made parole. Speaking of creepy, my recluse of a brother took me in. Hey, is that shock I see? You didn’t know I had a twin?”

“Jesus, Barb,” Tabitha said, leaning heavily on the bar. “Just strangle the dumbass already.”

Barbara cocked her head, smiling thinly. “Yeah, freak. We did. You talked in your sleep.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Jerome gushed. “Saves me havin’ to share so much backstory. Anyhow, bro and I have hit a rough patch. He’s got this, uh, crush. No time for me anymore. I was wonderin’ if you knew the name of the lady who runs Celestial Garden?”

“What, you mean Jeri?” Tabitha asked, raising her head in surprise. “She’s a big fan of yours.”

“That’s just what I hoped to hear,” Jerome said, giving Tabitha finger-guns as Barbara released him. “Is there any way you could…I dunno, introduce me, or give me somethin’ she’d accept in lieu of a cover charge?”

Barbara took his wrist, twisted it behind him, and pushed him toward the exit. “Try your face.”

Just like that, he was back in the street. It was darker now, colder. So much for summer nights.

After another five minutes of walking, Jerome threw back his hood as he approached the front entrance of Celestial Garden.

“They said you gave up the ol’ life of crime,” chuckled the bouncer, dismissively. “That right?”

“See, _gave up_ is a strong term,” Jerome replied. “I’m breaking house-arrest as we speak.”

The bouncer gave him a that’s-fair-I-guess look. “Are you lookin’ for Jeri? We get that a lot.”

“Yeah,” Jerome said, drawing his hood back up. “Former juvenile delinquents come to her for sanctuary often?”

“The Wayne kid, a few years ago,” the bouncer said with amusement. “Had some kinda chip on his shoulder.”

“Dead parents,” Jerome retorted. “So’re mine. Killed ’em myself. Even Brucie can’t say that.”

The bouncer laughed again, this time like he might be warming up to Jerome. “You got cash?”

“Nope,” Jerome said, turning out his hoodie pockets, and then his trouser pockets. “Sue me.”

“Head to the back, up the stairs,” said the bouncer. “Jeri’s on break between sets. She might be glad to see you, or she might kill you.”

“I get that a lot,” Jerome said, saluting him, heading inside. “Very little in between, trust me.”

Jerome made it through the gyrating, strobe-lit crowd without incident. He had to ask an androgynous bartender where the stairs were. He thanked them, found the staircase, and rushed up both flights like the entire GCPD was on his tail.

Jeri wasn’t startled when Jerome burst in. She just kept fussing with her garish clown make-up.

“Take off that silly-ass hood, kid,” she said wearily. “At least I could see who the last one was.”

“Brucie’s no fun,” Jerome said, pushing the hood back. “Take it from me. Needs to lighten up.”

Jeri turned slowly on her stool, lowering the tube of red stain she’d been applying to her lips.

“Welp, I’ll be good-goddamned,” she said, pitching the tube over her shoulder. “It’s really you.”

Jerome stared sarcastically around the dingy dressing room to make it clear he was unimpressed.

“Listen, I’ve been through a lot. I got parole because my brother worked out some shady deal with the Warden—mad props, I respect that—but the honeymoon just didn’t last. Never live with your twin if you can help it. Bad blood runs deep. His bestie-slash-assistant is cool, though. Wait, where was I? Oh, right. Broski fell ass over teacup for Mr. Wayne—your friend _and_ mine—at first sight. No time left for me.”

Jeri nodded, indifferent in spite of the pained twist of her lips. “That sucks. What do you want?”

Jerome dragged his feet the whole way over to her battered sofa. “A place to crash until I can figure out a game plan on this job I’ve gotta finish?”

Jeri narrowed her eyes, leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees. “What kinda job?”

“What kinda job do you think?” Jerome retorted, picking his fingernails in disdain. “A hit.”

Jeri whistled and sat up again, her back ramrod-straight. “I guess it’s true what they say.”

Jerome silently, bitterly pantomimed her, satisfied to see her grin. “What _do_ they say?”

“Lions can’t change their stripes,” Jeri sighed. “Wait, no. That’s tigers. You get my drift.”

“Does that mean I can stay here?” Jerome asked. “I’m no great shakes at housework, but—”

“I don’t fuckin’ care about that,” Jeri cut in. “ _Or_ money. You can pay me with info.”

“What do you think I am, a spy?” Jerome asked, amused. “I’ve been underground. Literally.”

Jeri folded her arms and crossed her legs. “You can start by tellin’ me who you need to kill.”

Jerome shrugged, because what the hell. “You know Dr. Strangelove is on the loose, right?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an old movie, but sure,” Jeri prompted. “He’s fruit-loops like you.”

“Not anymore,” Jerome chuckled, warming up to her, “if you believe the certificate. So, before I got out early for good behavior—” he emphasized the latter with air quotes “—my pal Hugo asked me to track down one of those, uh, monsters Fish Mooney let out of Indian Hill.”

Jeri cackled, clapping her hands. “I gotcha. Can’t have that last, inconvenient fuck-up runnin’ around for all to see. What’s this monster look like?”

“You’ll ship me back to Arkham for saying this,” Jerome replied, “ _but_ —Bruce Wayne.”

Jeri’s wide, gleeful grin faded. She uncrossed her legs and turned back to the dust-rimed mirror.

“Here we go again,” Jeri said, sounding disgruntled. “Why am I always the childish hand of fate? Playin’ God gets _real_ old when you’re my age.”

“I know Bruce came here once,” Jerome said impatiently. “Believe me, though—it’s not Bruce I wanna kill, not anymore. At this rate, I’m gonna be seein’ a lot of him, and sooner than I’d like. No, what Strange told me is, speakin’ of God, the truth. There’s some kinda Bruce look-alike he created for the Court of Owls, using DNA he had access to during his Pinewood Farms days, that should’ve died. You with me?”

“How does he know this clone or whatever’s still alive?” Jeri asked, retouching her lips again.

“Rumors, hearsay,” Jerome went on. “The Narrows and Arkham have only a few degrees of separation. Like Kevin Bacon, only way less boring.”

Jeri closed her eyes. Jerome thought she was about to open one of them and get down to fixing smudged liner on the other, but she sat motionless.

“Is that a hint it’s nap-time?” Jerome prompted sourly. “Do you need your beauty rest before—”

“I never shoulda got fond of you damn kids. Devil must be takin’ his due,” Jeri said, sounding defeated. “Bruce, now—I liked his moxie. He didn’t pull the trigger himself on the dude who killed his parents—old buddy of mine, that’s why he came here—but he might as well have. Suicide by bullet a few seconds after Bruce left, _pow_.” She sniffed, finally examining her eyeliner. “When the next one came in, maybe…oh, a year and a half, two years after Bruce…coulda sworn I was trippin’ balls. The kid was almost a dead-ringer, but…thinner. Moved different. Dressed different, too. Lucy at the Foxglove had sent him. She’s always usin’ street urchins for her errands. He handed me this fat envelope and turned to go. It was the five grand I’d lent her like eight years back. This kid, he coulda run off with the cash. I felt sorry for him, told him to get back here. It was winter, real cold. I made him some tea. We talked a while, about nothin’ much. He said he had to go, so I sent some food with him.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is, I should go to the Foxglove and ask this Lucy?” Jerome ventured.

“Can’t hurt,” Jeri said. “She might know the kid’s name. He never told it to me. Hard to forget him with a face like that.”

“Hey, it’s been real,” said Jerome, stiffly getting to his feet. “I’ll see myself out. Thanks.”

“Nah ah ah,” Jeri said, swiveling around. “You better lie low a few days. As long as you don’t mind that sofa, it’s yours.”

Jerome sat back down, relieved. “Are you gonna try to convince me not to kill this guy?”

“I already told you, J. Fate works in mysterious ways,” Jeri said. “You will or you won’t.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jerome said, lying back, “but you remind me of my old man.”

Jeri convinced Jerome to stay under lock and key for about five days. She must have felt bad for cramping his style, because she gave him free rein of the apartment. It was surreal to have a glimpse into the life of someone who’d taken his message to heart.

Jerome made any number of petulant demands when Jeri wasn’t downstairs performing or tending to the club. Clothes that suited his taste. Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Assorted weapons.

One night while Jeri was in the middle of a set, Jerome slipped out of Celestial Garden, his face covered by the _commedia dell’arte_ mask she’d brought him. It was obvious as soon as he got within a stone’s throw of the place why he’d need it. Everyone there wore some kind of face-covering. So did the service staff and security detail.

No matter how Jerome tried to get close to Lucy, Mistress of Ceremonies, the slight-looking, black-masked bodyguard accompanying her held Jerome off with nothing more than a glare. 

Smart move on the bodyguard’s part, Jerome had to admit—dressing in combat boots, fishnets, and a fetching mid-thigh tulle skirt. Why risk approaching the brothel’s madame when trading threatening, faux-flirtatious glances with her security detail was more fun?

After a few hours of silent, smoldering intrigue, Jerome slipped out into the alley and concealed himself until the place closed. Lucy and her aesthetically-pleasing shadow were among the last to leave. Jerome tailed them for a few blocks, and then made his move.

Lucy fled. The bodyguard stood their ground, artfully pinned-up braid falling loose as they assumed an offensive stance.

“Not even gonna let me have a civil chat, is that it?” Jerome asked, drawing his gun. “Unwise.”

“I know who you are,” said the bodyguard, producing a blade from beneath their sleeve. “Jerome Valeska? You should leave.”

Jerome had never seen someone dodge a bullet so fast, or throw a knife with such terrifying precision. Clutching at his injured shoulder, Jerome went down before he could think clearly, pulling the blade loose.

The bodyguard had him pinned in seconds. Jerome’s mask cracked beneath repeated punches, reminding him unpleasantly of his fight with Bruce in the maze of mirrors. Jerome finally landed a few blows, throwing off his attacker. He shed his ruined mask.

They both sat there in the dust, panting, now trading glances more bewildered than anything else. 

Jerome spat bloody saliva. “Wowza! Now, you’re my kinda…girl? Boy? Gender-non-specific entity?”

The bodyguard just stared at him, wiping the blood from beneath their nose, and started to laugh.

Joining in the hysterics seemed like the best course of action, so Jerome cackled right along until his sides hurt. Well, no—the most likely cause of his sides hurting was a couple cracked ribs.

Finally getting to their feet, dusting themself off, the bodyguard offered Jerome a steady hand.

“People who work here are cool about it,” they said, “but some of the patrons? Not so much.”

“My brother and his bestie are both…” Jerome hesitated, turning the protracted handclasp into a handshake before letting go. “Like you, I think.”

“My name is Five,” said the bodyguard. “That doesn’t clarify what I am. Are you unsure about that, or unsure about your brother and his friend?”

“I know what they are,” Jerome asserted, rubbing the side of his neck. “You? I took a guess.”

Five nodded. “Everyone has always told me that I’m a guy, but the paperwork—” he paused “—from the lab, long story—doesn’t fully agree.”

An actual—okay, metaphorical—lightbulb went on in Jerome’s head. “You’re like my brother.”

Five’s eyes lit up at that. “You know someone else with—with biology that’s confusing, too?”

“Yup,” Jerome sighed, prodding at his split lip. “The only thing about us that’s not identical.”

The light in Five’s eyes died, and he shrank into himself. “You and your brother are twins?”

Jerome nodded, shrugging with his arms spread wide. “Hey, nobody’s perfect. Bad copy.”

Nothing could’ve prepared Jerome for what happened next. Five tore off his mask and threw it down.

“Oh jeez,” Jerome said, staring into a face that wasn’t _quite_ Bruce Wayne’s. “Shit.”

Five shrank back again. “Wait—what? Do you recognize me? Why are you saying that?”

Jerome realized his injury was bleeding through his pale suit jacket. He clapped a hand to it.

“I won’t lie to you, not after you won that fight fair and square,” he panted. “Somebody we both hate hired me to get rid of you, but…nope. Can’t.”

Appearing to recover from whatever emotional spiral he’d been stuck in, Five approached Jerome. He tugged the handkerchief from Jerome’s pocket, lifted Jerome’s hand, and pressed it to the stinging wound.

“Somebody we both hate,” Five repeated, fussing at his braid with his free hand. “Hugo Strange? I heard he escaped from Arkham. I know people talk when they see my face, so…makes sense he found out I’m still alive.

“Listen, princess,” Jerome said, flipping Five’s braid back over his shoulder. “If you wanna stay alive, you had better come with me.”

For a second, Five looked like he might punch Jerome again, but he subsided into consideration.

“Why change your mind?” He grabbed Jerome’s right shoulder, bracing him while he applied firmer pressure to the left. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I like you,” Jerome said. Disgusted with himself, he thought of Jeremiah’s bunker and Wayne Manor. “And I can offer you protection.”


	5. Mutual Impulse

Exactly a week to the evening since Jerome had walked out of the GCPD and vanished, Jeremiah wasn’t pleased to be back at the station. He was willing to tolerate the circumstance because Bruce had insisted on accompanying him and Harley there.

Ever since Jeremiah had accepted Bruce’s dinner invite the night of Jerome’s disappearance, the two of them hadn’t spent much time apart. Bruce had spent each day tirelessly combing the city with Gordon and Bullock. Each evening, he’d picked up dinner and brought it to the bunker.

After each of Bruce’s late-night departures, Harley would smugly point out the fact that it was a pretense—considering how little there was to report. Wherever Jerome had gone to ground, there was either nobody to see him, or the people hiding him refused to talk.

Thursday evening, Bruce had lingered so long that Harley had opted out of their card game, yawning, and told them she was heading home to the city. Promising she’d see them bright and early the next morning, she’d winked at Jeremiah on her way out.

Bruce had drunk nearly as much whiskey as Jeremiah, and hadn’t trusted himself to drive home. Anxious at the thought of some terrible fate befalling Bruce, Jeremiah had shown him to the room Harley and Jerome had occupied in turn. Bruce had embraced Jeremiah before he’d turned to go—promising that, one way or another, he’d find Jerome.

They’d slept late, roused only when Harley knocked on each of their doors. Jeremiah couldn’t help but find Bruce endearing over the breakfast sandwiches Harley had brought for all three of them—especially when he picked the bacon out and shoved them at Harley, who’d begun making grabby-hands the second she realized what he was doing. 

Jeremiah and Bruce had spent hours thereafter trawling news reports, stationed across from each other at the wrapper-riddled table. After the first few times they’d jumped when their feet or ankles brushed, they’d stopped shying from it.

Harley had interrupted them somewhere around midnight, causing Jeremiah to withdraw his restless toes from beneath the arch of Bruce’s foot. She said Gordon had called, asking them to come to the precinct. He’d stumbled across a lead.

Which brought them to the present moment, with Gordon drawing an _X_ over each of several points on a disgracefully outdated surveyor’s map of Gotham. They were scattered throughout the Narrows, none of them that far apart. 

Bruce frowned at the third location. “That’s Celestial Garden,” he said, sounding unsurprised.

Gordon nodded grimly. “I brought the owner in here a few years back, the night I intercepted you there and you gave me the slip. Jeri and I haven’t been on the best of terms since. Not that we, ah, ever really were.”

“Why the Sirens?” Jeremiah asked, pointing at the second _X_. “What’s the connection?”

“Barb was all too happy to gloat about Jerome making an appearance there the night we lost track of him,” Gordon explained. “I might’ve discounted the claim, except Tabitha backed her up. Tabitha doesn’t often lie, not even to enemies.”

“Did they tell you to check with Jeri next?” Bruce asked, shooting Jeremiah a hopeful glance.

“That’s where I’d go if I was him,” Harley said. “That place is _way_ into him and his work.”

“His work,” Jim echoed, side-eyeing her uncomfortably. “Right. Anyhow, Harv and I shook Jeri down. She just laughed and said good luck finding him. When we asked her what that meant, she said he had what any sane person would call a death-wish.”

Jeremiah leaned hard on his forearms, the map blurring until it was meaningless. Not only had he driven Jerome away, but he’d potentially stripped him of the will to survive. Unforgivable, especially stacked with his past betrayal of Jerome’s trust.

Bruce covered Jeremiah’s hand with his own, as if he understood what Jeremiah was thinking.

“So he _was_ there?” Jeremiah asked, shaking off his dreadful despair. “How many days ago?”

“We couldn’t get it out of her,” Gordon sighed. “She’ll talk anyone in circles. Bruce knows.”

Harley set a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, perhaps so Bruce wouldn’t fall under scrutiny for not having let go of Jeremiah’s hand. She was as determined to protect them as she was to tease them. Jeremiah had never deserved her.

“Fine, so we know he was off to do somethin’ reckless,” Harley said. “J, I think you’d better—”

“Get out of the way!” shouted a voice that made Bruce jerk to attention. “Move! He’s hurt!”

The murmur that went up as the main doors swung shut behind the interlopers forced Jeremiah to stand up straight. His heart raced when he realized the bloodied figure that the speaker—at first glance, a young trans woman with emo fashion sense—supported _was_ Jerome.

“That’s not possible,” Bruce said, paralyzed as Jerome’s companion dragged Jerome past them.

“Are you seein’ what I’m…” Harley glanced back and forth between Jerome’s escort and Bruce. She gestured frantically, grabbing Jeremiah’s wrist.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gordon said, fixing Bruce with a baleful glance, “but is that…?”

“He needs to make a statement,” said Jerome’s escort, to the officer at the check-in desk. “He’ll need medical attention after that, because he’s…”

Jeremiah tuned out the escort’s familiar-yet-alien vocal timbre as Jerome, panting and leaning even harder into his support, waved insolently over his shoulder at all of them. He was smiling, but he was otherwise pinched and ashen with pain.

Harley hadn’t let go of Jeremiah’s wrist. She was shaking it back and forth almost excitedly.

“J,” she repeated in a loud whisper, “you gotta listen! D’you remember that article you read—”

“Who needs medical attention?” demanded the woman who rushed in from the back of the station, her lab coat flying. “Forget the statement, send them back to…” She stopped just shy of Jerome and his companion, which caused them to wheel around to face her.

Jeremiah couldn’t focus on what the Medical Examiner was asking Jerome and his companion as she led them back in the direction whence she’d come. The young woman—or young man, or whatever they were—turned their head to stare at Jeremiah as they passed.

“I remember,” was all Jeremiah said, wondering if his guess at Strange’s experiment being closer to Bruce’s half-sibling than a clone was accurate.

“Oh,” Bruce said, snapping out of his reverie, dragging Jeremiah with him as he followed Gordon, who’d taken off at a swift clip toward the Medical Examiner’s office. “I forgot it was in the papers.”

“Jeez, would ya slow the fuck down?” Harley called, irritated, dashing to keep pace with them.

By the time they had all filed into the cramped space, Dr. Leslie Thompkins—at least that’s what the Medical Examiner’s ID badge read—had situated Jerome in a chair. Bruce’s not-quite-doppelgänger hovered uselessly while Lee cut away Jerome’s jacket and shirt.

“Always a pleasure to see ya, Doc,” Jerome said hoarsely, hissing when Thompkins prodded tentatively at what looked like a fairly clean stab-wound in his shoulder. “It’s been a while. Miss me?”

“You have no idea,” Thompkins deadpanned, “how far that is from the truth.” She shot Jerome’s awkward hanger-on a critical glance. “You might want to stay back while I work on him. Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m Five,” said the stranger, their eyes darting nervously to Bruce. “Why should I stay back?”

Jeremiah couldn’t do anything but watch the proceedings with mortified annoyance. He’d refused to listen when Jerome had attempted to tell him who he’d been sent to kill. Now, he was staring Jerome’s target in the face. This wasn’t the way hits usually went down, with the would-be victim rushing their injured assailant to the nearest police station. Something was disturbingly amiss.

“Jerome’s a former Arkham patient,” said Gordon, looking as miserable as Bruce, if not more so. 

“You don’t get it. I did this to him,” Five said, strangely defiant. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“It was self-defense,” Jerome coughed, barely tolerating the alcohol-swabbing Thompkins was giving his wound. “I shot first.”

“Tell him to shut his yap,” Harley muttered to Jeremiah. “They’ll send him right back to Arkham.”

Bruce looked shell-shocked, but he hadn’t released Jeremiah’s wrist. “This can’t be happening.”

Before Jeremiah could speak to either Jerome _or_ Bruce, Five took a step toward Gordon.

“Jerome shot because he thought I meant him harm,” Five insisted. “It was dark in that alley.”

Gordon rubbed his jaw in weary consternation. “You’re saying it was a misunderstanding?”

“Yes,” Five replied, his eyes flickering down to Bruce’s hand curled around Jeremiah’s wrist.

“Would you swear to to that?” Thompkins asked Jerome. “I’ll hurt you way worse if you lie.”

Jerome nodded tautly, not even looking up at Five in corroboration. “Yeah. Stressful night.”

Harley opened her mouth, but she shut it when Jerome caught her eye. Something silent and indecipherable passed between the two of them.

Jeremiah’s annoyance flared intolerably. Why was Five covering for Jerome, and why was Jerome returning the favor? What could possibly have happened to shift Jerome’s allegiance to a complete stranger? Furthermore, what was Harley playing at?

“I don’t believe it,” Jeremiah said, turning his wrist in Bruce’s grasp, palm upward in offering.

“Don’t believe what?” Bruce asked, bewildered, but he took hold of Jeremiah’s hand in relief.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Five said haughtily, rounding on Bruce. “Our story to tell.”

“Sure, it was accidental,” Jerome said, flinching as Lee began to stitch him up, “but I’m the one who jumped the gun. I owe him protection.”

“Protection from what?” Jeremiah scoffed, lacing his fingers with Bruce’s. “Your terrible aim?”

“Strange,” Bruce said. “He hasn’t been caught, which would set any of his former victims ill at ease. I’ll tell Alfred to prepare one of the spare rooms.” He got out his phone and fired off a few texts, only to look crestfallen at the response. “Never mind. I misspoke.”

“Then that settles it,” Jerome said to Five, and then glared at Jeremiah. “You’ll come with me.”

Jeremiah couldn’t believe the sheer audacity of the suggestion. He burst into bitter laughter.

“And stay under my roof? Like hell. At this rate, I might as well move into Wayne Manor and leave my bunker to the two of you.”

Harley’s sharp intake of breath was the only indication that Jeremiah had said something, in his rashness, that he might regret.

Jeremiah was prepared to cut and run, at least until he realized Bruce had tightened his grasp.

“You can do that,” Bruce said. “Works better for everyone.” He turned to Harley. “You’re welcome to stay at Wayne Manor, too, for your safety.”

Harley gave Bruce a pitying, wistful look, but the look she gave Jeremiah was downright nasty.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “I got my own place, remember? Anyway, your brother and his acquaintance here are gonna need my help more than _you_ are, what with the butler. Enjoy the holiday, J. Don’t forget to write.”

Jeremiah watched, mind going blank with disbelief, as Harley crossed the room to grab one of the empty chairs. She approached Five, who didn’t seem to realize why she’d fetched it, and set it down.

“Thanks, Miss…” Five stared at her as he sat down, scooting the chair closer to Jerome.

“ _Ms._ Quinn,” Harley said, winking at Thompkins, who looked puzzled. “Harley.”

“I think we should go,” Bruce said quietly, leading Jeremiah toward the door. “Jim?”

“Speak for yourself,” Jim said acidly, but he followed them back out into the station.

“Wait,” Jeremiah said, resenting Jerome for causing necessary delay. “I hate to say it, but we’ll need to take them there. I’ll be able to grab some things while we’re at it. Clothing, effects, paperwork.”

“Sorry,” said Bruce, abashed, letting go of Jeremiah’s hand. “I didn’t even think about that.”

Jim left them to sit in a pair of the station’s least comfortable chairs without any goodbye.

Jeremiah was afraid Bruce might mistake his silence for anger, but Bruce’s hand crept back to his as soon as they’d settled. Jeremiah drew it over into his lap, running his thumb over the back. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes, not when their physical contact was now well beyond casual.

Harley eventually escorted Jerome and Five back out into the station. She looked surprised to see Jeremiah and Bruce had waited, but not forgiving.

“What’re you two waitin’ for?” Harley demanded. “Run along home before Alfredo gets worried.”

“Bruce drove us here,” Jeremiah pointed out, releasing Bruce’s hand as soon as Jerome noticed.

“That’s irrelevant,” Harley said before Bruce could chime in. “I’ll get a rental. I’m good for it.”

“I need to get my things,” Jeremiah replied, rising. “With any luck, we’ll be gone by the time you reach the bunker.”

This time, Bruce had to dash to keep up with Jeremiah. For most of the drive to Jeremiah’s residence, they spoke as little as they had while they’d waited at the station. Jeremiah remained shocked at how easy silence felt between them.

Once they were safely inside, Bruce waited patiently while Jeremiah packed his bags. He seemed to understand that offering help might cross even more of a line than they had already crossed. The most he did was offer to take Jeremiah’s briefcase.

In spite of their exhaustion, they cleared out and made it to Wayne Manor by three in the morning. When Bruce expressed trepidation over nobody being there to let Jerome and Five in, Jeremiah reminded him that Jerome and Harley had voice access. 

Alfred reacted as if he’d expected them both. “Welcome home, Master Bruce. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Jeremiah. Bruce has talked you up.”

“All good things, I hope,” said Jeremiah, self-deprecatingly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, too.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said. “As long as the guest room’s ready, we’ll just head upstairs.”

Alfred stood aside, watching them haul Jeremiah’s personal effects up the intimidating staircase.

Bruce opened a door midway down the hall, indicating Jeremiah should step inside. “Here.”

“This is more space than I could possibly need,” Jeremiah said, setting his bags next to his briefcase, which Bruce had propped against the dresser. “Surely you have something smaller?”

“Your medications,” blurted Bruce, guiltily, leaning close. “I put them in your briefcase.”

“I can’t believe I forgot,” said Jeremiah, ashamed. “I’d insist that we go back if you hadn’t—”

Neither one of them kissed with any measure of authority, but Jeremiah felt faint all the same. He clutched at Bruce’s shoulders.

“Forgive me,” Bruce sighed, drawing back. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re not obliged.”

Jeremiah shook his head, abashed. “Don’t apologize. The impulse was mutual. Good night.”


	6. Letting Go

Jerome had to admire the fact that, when Harley said _rental car_ and _I’m good for it_ , she meant _hot-wired car_ and _I’m good at it_. She beckoned to them, gleefully pantomiming laying on the horn of the ancient Station Wagon.

“Your coach, princess,” Jerome said, opening the passenger-side door for Five, bowing stiffly.

Five half-smiled, but pushed the passenger-side door shut and opened the back door instead.

“Back here,” he said quietly, inclining his head toward Jerome. “So we can sit together.”

There was something insufferably adorable about Five’s earnest forthrightness. He was serious, sure, but not as serious as Bruce. He had subtler ways of showing he had a sense of humor, and he wasn’t afraid of causing offense.

Jerome climbed in, grunting at the strain it put on his stitches, and then reached to help Five climb in after him. When he realized Five, settled beside him, hadn’t released his hand, he extracted it carefully from Five’s grasp.

“Sorry,” said Five, voice low as Harley hit the gas and tore into the street. “If you don’t like—”

Harley took the next turn a little too sharply, which caused Jerome to keel right into Five.

“Nah,” he said, realizing Five had grabbed his hand reflexively to keep him from falling the whole way across Five’s lap. He maintained his hold as he sat back up. “I like you just fine,” he said, finding that he meant it.

Five was staring down at their clasped hands, both starkly pale against the inky tulle of his skirt.

Jerome had noticed the ease with which Jeremiah and Bruce had done the same. If he hadn’t been in so much discomfort thanks to Lee patching him, he might’ve called them on it. Terrible thing to have to see, your twin enjoying success where you failed.

“I meant holding hands,” Five clarified, inquisitively glancing up at him. “You can let go.”

Jerome caught Harley watching, eyes narrowed, in the rearview mirror. She looked away.

“You saved my ass after kicking it in a fight,” he said, squeezing Five’s fingers. “Uh, thanks.”

Five seemed oblivious to Harley’s put-upon reactions up front, which ranged from huffing to throat-clearing. He traced points between the faint freckles on the back of Jerome’s hand.

“You decided not to kill me,” Five said. “Strange would’ve paid. I should be thanking _you_.”

Embarrassing, how close Jerome was to leaning over to see if Five’s hair smelled as nice as it looked. Instead, he cleared _his_ throat and sat back, leaving his hand right where it was.

“Anywhere we gotta stop so you can grab your shit?” he said loudly enough for Harley to hear.

Five lifted his head sharply, eyes bright with gratitude. “Yeah, but…we’d need to turn around.”

“Hey, whatever, that’s what J pays me for,” Harley sighed, taking the next exit. “The docks?”

Five nodded, meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Near the old brewery. I have a squat.”

Jerome did some quick mental geography. “That’s pretty far from where you work, isn’t it?”

Five shrugged, but he was wearing that half-smile again. “I can get rides easily enough.”

“Not that I think you can’t look out for yourself. I mean, I _know_ you can, but…”

“Taxi cabs,” Five said, as if that was reassuring. “Hitchhiking. If they give me any trouble, I just…” He glanced nervously up at the rearview mirror.

“She’s cool,” Jerome said. “She knows the worst me and the bro have done. Besides, she stole a car to get us out of there faster. Didn’t have to.”

“Hurt them,” Five finished, nodding gratefully at Harley. “I’ve only ever had to kill one.”

Whether it was the ongoing proximity, or imagining Five doing what he undoubtedly did best, Jerome was aware his palm had grown damp. His pulse quickened as he finally let go. How goddamned inconvenient.

“Cramp,” Jerome lied, making a big show of flexing his hand. “What did you do to ’em?”

Five pulled the elastic out of his braid, absently combing his hair down over his shoulder.

“Snapped his neck,” he said, letting his head loll back against the seat, turning it to gauge Jerome’s response. “He was carrying cash. Two hundred dollars. It more than made up for being late to work.”

“Thrilling as this conversation is, you gotta tell me which building,” Harley reminded him.

Jerome wondered if the look on his face was anything like the one on Jeremiah’s when he’d first seen Bruce. He tuned out the street-by-street directions Five was giving Harley, silently panicking. This couldn’t be his thing, not after how badly he’d fucked up pursuing Bruce.

Harley parked the car about two minutes later, and Five got out before Jerome could ask if he needed any help. Jerome watched him vanish inside a derelict building the city should’ve demolished ages ago.

“You and J sure have got a type, huh?” Harley said under her breath as soon as they were alone.

“Take that back,” Jerome threatened, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Princess is nothing like Brucie.”

“Princess, huh,” Harley snickered, slapping the steering wheel. “Do they mind you doin’ that?”

“Doing what?” Jerome asked, bewildered. He watched a light come on about four stories up.

“Callin’ them that,” Harley clarified, turning around to face him. “Him that? _Her_ that?”

“Strange said he was… _he_ , but…” Jerome knew she had a point. “I don’t really know.”

“Likin’ _princess_ might be a hint,” Harley said. “Then again, might not. I’ve known plenty of twinks and pretty-boys who don’t mind that old-school Miss Thing kinda deal. Personally, I never liked it before I transitioned. Don’t like it now.”

“Okay, so I should ask,” Jerome muttered, surprised to see the light go out again so soon.

“I should fuckin’ think so,” Harley said, flexing her foot on the brake-pedal. She waxed thoughtful, checking her mascara. “You’re gonna be roomies for the next…well, dunno how long. Until Strange is caught, maybe.”

“Until _J_ finds a place to put us, more like,” Jerome sneered, relieved to see Five emerge from the building with a backpack and a couple of trash bags. He leaned across the seat and opened Five’s door

“Clothes and stuff, don’t worry,” Five said breathlessly, placing them on the seat. He closed the door, and then came around to Jerome’s side. “Scoot over,” he said, opening Jerome’s door, sliding in without warning.

Jerome was squashed up against the trash bags, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry when Five was pressed against his side, hair brushing Jerome’s shoulder. It did smell nice, sweet without being cloying.

Five fell asleep after about ten minutes, which was understandable given it was three in the morning. When his head fell against Jerome’s shoulder, Jerome gave in and put an arm around him, pulling him closer. He’d never dared try anything as simple as this.

On arrival at the bunker, Five stirred, gasped, and lifted his head. He ducked abashedly and pushed the door open, quickly going around to the other side while Jerome got out and stretched painfully.

“You’re not carryin’ that in alone,” Harley said, taking one of the bags from him. “I’m gonna—”

“Go home, is what,” Jerome said, taking the bag from her in turn. “We’re fine. I can get us in.”

“Thanks,” Harley said. “Gotta ditch these wheels anyway. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Jerome found Five’s wide-eyed curiosity flattering as they approached the bunker’s enigmatic entrance. However, his reaction shifted when Jerome pressed his thumb to the keypad and gave the command slowly enough for the system to recognize his voice.

When the elevator door slid open, Five was frozen on the spot. Jerome had to get in first, set down the bag he’d taken, and then take Five’s other bag and backpack away from him. Five’s hesitation was oddly uncharacteristic.

“Hey, it’s safe,” Jerome insisted, extending both hands toward Five. “C’mon. It only takes—”

Five took hold of Jerome’s hands, closing his eyes, and propelled himself forward with an apprehensive gasp. Taken aback, Jerome had no choice but to catch Five against his chest and hold Five’s trembling form the whole way down.

“You didn’t…” Five swallowed, pretending he wasn’t terrified. “Tell me it was underground.”

“Oh, uh, well,” Jerome managed as the elevator finally began to slow, “when my bro said _bunker_ , I kinda just assumed it went without saying.”

“Indian Hill,” Five said harshly. “You were dead when you were there. You don’t remember.”

Jerome felt like a complete ass, but there was little more he could do than awkwardly pat Five’s back and release him. Five stepped off the elevator, in too much of a rush to grab his things, so Jerome kicked the backpack into the hall and dragged both trash bags by their ties.

“Don’t,” Five gasped, collecting up the items. “You’re hurt. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have…”

“This place doesn’t look much like Indian Hill, or at least I hope not,” Jerome said, leading the way past the door to Jeremiah’s main workspace.

“All the doors had security keypads like the doors in this place,” Five replied hesitantly.

Jerome paused mid-stride, turning to study Five’s features under the strident artificial light.

“Set that stuff down,” he said, waiting until Five had done so, and then took Five’s hand.

“Where are we going?” Five asked, puzzled as they walked back the way they’d come.

“I’m gonna give you a tour,” Jerome explained, “but first…” He stopped them next to the entrance to Jeremiah’s main workspace. “Jerome 522,” he said, just as he had at the surface entrance, and pressed his thumb to this keypad, too. “We were born May 21st, but J—” he decided using Harley’s nickname for him couldn’t hurt “—obviously used 521.”

Five walked past Jerome the second the door swished open, eyes instantly falling on the bank of television monitors. He stared at the black-and-white security feeds, pointing at a handful in sequence.

“That space,” Five said, eyes tracking swiftly. “Those halls—they’re all corners. Why is that?”

“If you wanna escape from this place without security access to the elevator,” Jerome said, “you’ve gotta go through an actual maze to do it.”

“Is it difficult?” Five asked, finally turning from the screens to take in the desk, drafting table, miniature model of the city, and schematics.

“I solved it without his help,” Jerome said proudly. “He was just along for the ride. Totally furious when we made it to the end in, like, an hour.”

“I want to do that,” Five said. “With you, of course. But I don’t want you to give me hints.”

“I will only if we’re at risk of gettin’ stuck for days,” Jerome promised. “C’mon, more to see.”

When they got to Jeremiah’s quarters at the end of the hall, Jerome tried to offer Five Jeremiah’s bed. 

Five shook his head, staring warily from the desk to the bookshelf to the kitchen area.

“I’m the guest here,” he said. “You should take this part. Where’s the guest room you used?”

Jerome shrugged and showed him, mystified when Five sat down on the mattress, flopped over to bury his face in the pillow, and then sat up again.

“Let’s get your stuff,” Jerome yawned, turning to walk back down the hall. “It’s fuckin’ late.”

“You don’t have to help,” Five insisted. “Just…program my keypad access, so I don’t have to bother you to get in and out of rooms?”

Jerome shrugged. Five had a valid point, and he’d take pleasure in going over Jeremiah’s head.

Five chose _666_ as his number, which made Jerome snort. Miffed, Five said it was because he thought saying _Five 555_ would confuse the system.

Jerome watched Five test it on every door in the immediate corridor. Once he was satisfied he could get in and out of the spaces he and Jerome would be sharing, he fetched his stuff and carried it to the guest room. Jerome lingered in the doorway, watching Five start to settle in.

“Oh, wait,” Jerome said, pushing past Five to the bureau. “Lemme get, uh…” He pulled the small amount of clothing Jeremiah had given him out of the drawers, clutching it to his chest.

Five turned to study him again, as if working out another puzzle. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Listen, like I said,” Jerome said, exasperated, “I was gonna kill you. This is reparations.”

Five stepped right into Jerome’s personal space, wrestled the clothing out of his arms, and started to walk down the hall. He didn’t stop until he’d marched into Jeremiah’s quarters and set the load on Jeremiah’s oversized bed.

“I don’t think you were,” Five said, not protesting when Jerome followed him back to the guest room like the lost creature he was. “Anything else you need to know before you decide keeping me here is really a good idea?”

“I already decided that,” Jerome said, leaning against the lintel. “And, uh…yeah. Pronouns?”

Shaking his head, Five shrugged. “Everyone at the lab used _he_ , so I assumed that must be right. When I started working at the club, people sometimes used that, but they also used _she_ just as often. I think about the neutral ones sometimes. I just let people use what they want, because…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure what _I_ want. You?”

Jerome shoved his hands in his pockets. The urge to reach for Five was too strong.

“ _He_ is fine for me. I’ve never known anything different. Pretty sure I’m a guy.”

“I was at the [Pride Parade a year and a half ago](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636930/chapters/34492427),” Five confessed. “I saw you.”

“Ah,” Jerome said, turning to go. “Less said the better, huh? I’ll never dress like that again.”

“It would be a pity if you didn’t,” Five called after him, the sound of his voice indicating he’d stepped into the hall to watch Jerome walk toward the end of it. “You seemed happy.”

Once he was shut in Jeremiah’s room, Jerome sat down on the edge of the bed, shoved all his clothes onto the floor, and lay down. He kicked off his shoes as an afterthought.

When Jerome woke up, he couldn’t recall having fallen asleep. The digital clock on the nightstand told him it was just past noon, and somebody was moving around the kitchen-area on the far side of the room. He sat up, grateful he was still fully clothed.

“Breakfast,” Five said, holding the coffee pot and the frying-pan out defensively at arms’ length. He was in tight black jeans and a faded black sweatshirt with bleach-stains. His worn-out footie socks had gray cartoon cats on them.

“Gimme a heart attack, sheesh,” Jerome muttered, staggering to his feet. The eggs and bacon smelled slightly burnt, but he was so hungry he didn’t care. Joining Five at the table was easy, not least because seeing Five’s hair down and brushed out was fascinating.

“We’re going to have to check your stitches after we eat,” Five said, passing Jerome a plate.

“Whatever you say, princess,” Jerome replied, accepting the fork that came next. “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” Five said, pouring some into a mug. “It’s instant. I didn’t know what to do with the French press. What _do_ you do with a French press?”

“That’s Bruce-level shit,” Jerome said derisively, shocked at how good the instant was. “Not for us to know.” He reached out again, and Five passed him the milk. “You didn’t have to cook.”

Five shrugged, gulping half his mug in one go. “I can’t do anything else to repay you.”

Jerome rolled his eyes. “I don’t make a habit of altruism, but I think you’re kinda all right.”

“For what it’s worth,” Five said, lowering his eyes as he cut into his eggs, “I like you, too.”


	7. Presentable

Jeremiah hadn’t realized just how unaccustomed to the world of daylight he’d become.

For nearly the entirety of his first week at Wayne Manor, Jeremiah couldn’t bring himself to leave the guest room. He didn’t dare open the drapes.

Perceptive to a fault, Bruce had caught on quickly. He saw to it that Alfred delivered three meals a day and any number of frivolous snacks besides. He also made a point of joining Jeremiah for lunch and dinner, never knocking before about eleven.

Neither one of them had brought up the kiss, as if their lapse in judgment went beyond poor taste. Jeremiah thought bitterly of his actual reason for hesitating. He didn’t think Bruce would be the sort to turn him down on the basis of his biological-sex-variant being at so-called odds with his gender identity, but he’d learned the hard way. So had Harley; it was one of the reasons they’d bonded.

Bruce made a point of taking his hand if Jeremiah initiated contact with a brush of his fingers. They played cards and chess. They talked.

On the sixth morning, Jeremiah met Alfred at the door, asking if he could come down to join them. The butler led him to Bruce in the kitchen.

During breakfast, Jeremiah’s phone rang. It was the first Harley had called since he’d entrusted her with Jerome and the time-bomb he’d acquired.

“What is it?” Jeremiah asked once he’d safely cleared the kitchen, wandering into the conservatory. “Have they burned the place down?”

“You’re an asshole sometimes, you know that?” Harley asked. “Actually, nah, you’re an asshole most of the time. I _am_ callin’ to give a report, but it’s not like you think. They gave me a coupla scares—first day, the kitchen smelled like there’d been a grease-fire in there. Turns out Jerome’s good at cleanin’ up after Five’s domestic disasters. I got a hunch he’s just gonna take over that stuff. He gave Five voice access to most of the main rooms. They can’t get at any of your high-security shit, though.” She started to laugh. “You shoulda seen ’em in the maze. Five wanted to try solvin’ it without hints. Took Jerome with him, of course. Ten hours, and Jerome was losin’ his fuckin’ mind. I’ll send the security footage.”

Jeremiah had frozen at least midway through her monologue, chewing on his lip, bewildered.

“Sure,” he said vaguely, tracking back several sentences. “Took Jerome with him, _of course_?”

Harley hesitated, in that haughty way she had—little more than a hitched breath, lips pursed.

“I, uh, don’t want to alarm you or anythin’, but they’ve gotten…kinda close. Fast, too.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “Well, certainly they would. Two peas in a psychopathic pod.”

“Oh yeah, J?” Harley shot back. “Then what’s that make you, anyway? Remind me?”

“I’m a selective sociopath, last I checked,” Jeremiah deadpanned. “Just…how close?”

“They don’t spend too much time apart,” Harley said. “I’ve seen ’em hold hands. It’s in the footage. Stand too close when they’re talkin’, stuff like that. They always pretend there’s a logical reason. You can tell in the body language. _I_ can tell, anyway.”

“You’ve made your point,” Jeremiah said irritably. “I’ll double your pay for the past week.”

“I guess you can afford it at the moment, huh?” Harley replied. “Bet Brucie would let you—”

“Call me in a few days,” Jeremiah said curtly, hating the reminder of how Jerome had endeared himself to her. “I’ll expect the footage.”

Harley hung up, already starting to speak to someone else. “Hey, listen to this, you’ll never—”

Jeremiah stuck his phone in his robe’s pocket, turning to realize, too late, that Bruce was there.

“Is that why you kept me at arms’ length the other night? When we first got here? When I…”

Jeremiah lowered his gaze, wishing he could run from this. “You can say it, Bruce. We kissed.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, his voice betraying how flustered he was. “Was it, though? Jeremiah?”

“If you mean my diagnosis,” Jeremiah said, closing his eyes, “you’ll have to specify which one.”

“Which…one?” Bruce echoed, stepping closer out of concern. “I know about why you’re medicated, that’s not…I don’t care. I’m asking if _you_ do, and telling you that you don’t have to. I just…” He tilted his head until Jeremiah looked up at him.

Jeremiah shook his head, staring over at the wicker chairs under one of the skylights. “Let’s sit.”

Instead of letting Jeremiah direct them to the chairs, Bruce took Jeremiah’s hand and led him over to the cushioned sofa along the glass-paneled wall. He kissed Jeremiah’s hand—God, who even _did_ that anymore? It was shockingly, achingly sweet.

“Are you courting me?” Jeremiah asked, glib as his cheeks heated. “Better ask Harley first.”

“I can guess,” Bruce said. “You grabbed something from your kitchen that night. There’s a reason I put you in the guest room with a mini-fridge.”

“You’re relieved the needles are for a necessity rather than an addiction,” Jeremiah said bitterly. “There’s no more to tell. I’m like this. Jerome isn’t.”

“I didn’t keep coming back because you’re not like him,” Bruce insisted. “I kept coming back you’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Jeremiah reached to set his palm against Bruce’s cheek, relieved when Bruce didn’t flinch away.

“Your illusion of me’s going to shatter, _but_ —I’ve watched your every move for a year. Every newspaper clipping, every sound-bite that caught my attention. I knew you existed when I first met your father, but that meant nothing to me then. I was so young, and you were younger.”

Bruce nodded, his expression reassuringly calm. He set his hand over Jeremiah’s. “Is that all?”

“I never imagined I’d see you as anything other than a footnote,” Jeremiah pressed on, guiltily. “I was saddened to hear of your parents’ death.”

“You’re right to use death, singular,” Bruce said. “We shared it. I died, too. I’m not the same.”

Gathering all of his courage, Jeremiah set his other hand on Bruce’s other cheek and leaned in.

“I was going to find you,” he whispered. “I meant to. I’d need to speak to you about Jerome’s…dealings with you, to apologize on his behalf, or…”

Bruce closed the gap between them, kissing Jeremiah with more hunger than he had a week ago.

“We should go,” he panted, pulling back sooner than Jeremiah would have liked, his fingers as tangled in the folds of Jeremiah’s robe as Jeremiah’s were in Bruce’s hair. “Alfred might worry.”

Jeremiah kissed him again before letting go. “I’ll come to you later. Tonight, if…you want.”

“I told you,” Bruce said quietly, getting to his feet, “you’re not obliged.” He held out his hand.

“This isn’t me fulfilling an obligation,” Jeremiah insisted, following him. “This is me offering.”

Bruce nodded pensively, but didn’t say anything. They finished their breakfast in near-silence.

“What a cheerful lot,” Alfred said, shooing them once they’d drunk their tea. “Go get some air.”

Once they’d showered and dressed—separately, somewhat to Jeremiah’s disappointment—Bruce gave him a tour of the grounds. The woods that led down to the river were full of curious, knee-high cairns.

The piles of stones on the steps of the family mausoleum felt different. Jeremiah said as much.

“The ones along the trails, my father and I made,” Bruce explained. “To find our way, or just to mark the occasion. We’d hike once a year.” He sat down on the low marble stairs, beckoning for Jeremiah to join him. “These, my mother taught me to make. Jewish tradition.”

Jeremiah couldn’t think of anything to say, so he scratched in the leaf-mold until he found a pebble. He brushed it off as best he could, and then turned to add it to one of the stacks. It wobbled, but didn’t fall.

“I never got to pay my respects,” Jeremiah said, meeting Bruce’s eyes. “Better late than never.”

“You’re not,” Bruce said, leaning until their shoulders touched. “You got here. You found me.”

By the time they finished wandering, dusk had fallen. Alfred greeted them in the hall with a parcel in hand, saying a courier had delivered it.

“What’s that?” Bruce asked, tripping out of his boots as Jeremiah opened the bubble mailer.

“Harley’s been entertaining herself by watching the security feeds,” Jeremiah said. “My brother and—” he hesitated “—Five? They’re quite the sideshow, apparently. I’ll be lucky if I return to any kind of home at all.”

“What did they do,” Bruce asked, laughter tinting his voice, “get lost in the maze or something?”

“Not exactly,” Jeremiah sighed, setting the DVD-R on the credenza. “Jerome knows his way. He let Five take his best shot, and it took…too long.”

“It would be a mistake to underestimate them,” Bruce said. “There must be a reason…” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s good they met. They’re both misanthropes who rarely trust anyone.” 

Jeremiah nudged Bruce’s shoulder like Bruce had nudged his in the woods. “Aren’t we, too?”

Rather than respond, Bruce snagged Jeremiah’s sleeve and tugged him up the grand staircase.

“What happened to sparing Alfred’s delicate sensibilities?” Jeremiah teased as they climbed.

“Unless you want early dinner,” Bruce said, practically dragging him once they reached the top, “I can think of a better use for our time.” He paused so suddenly Jeremiah collided with him.

Kissing without a clearly-defined idea of their final destination wasn’t smart. They knocked into Bruce’s bedroom door, hissing in pain and curt apology. Once they got over their bashed elbows and bruised pride, Bruce nudged Jeremiah inside and threw the deadbolt behind them.

“You need to tell me what I can and can’t do,” Bruce said, already shrugging out of his sweater. He dropped it on the floor, flushed with chagrin. “Otherwise, I’ll do…everything.”

Jeremiah unbuttoned his shirt, glad he hadn’t bothered with a tie or waistcoat. “I…that’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Bruce asked, spurred back into action when he realized Jeremiah was stripping down as no-nonsense as he was. “It’s extremely…it’s important. Your boundaries are—”

“I’ve been underground for almost six years,” Jeremiah said, removing his glasses, setting them aside. “I’ve never been with anyone, not even when I was at GU. You look surprised. Why?”

Bruce, already down to his boxer-briefs, coaxed Jeremiah to sit on the edge of the bed. He knelt and unfastened Jeremiah’s fly for him.

“I thought maybe you and Harley had some kind of history,” said Bruce, abashed, nuzzling Jeremiah’s chest with reverence. “Can I do this?”

Jeremiah nodded, threading his fingers through Bruce’s hair as Bruce pulled off Jeremiah’s socks. He lifted his hips when Bruce tugged down his trousers, response fading on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, leaning forward, pressing his mouth right over Jeremiah’s heart. “That was rude. Your affairs are none of my business.”

“You mean lack thereof,” Jeremiah reminded him, shivering when Bruce kissed the spot again.

“If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t…either,” Brue said, setting his palms on Jeremiah’s thighs, levering himself up. He pushed at Jeremiah’s shoulders until Jeremiah fell back, climbing onto the mattress, looming over him. “What do you want?”

Jeremiah’s mouth went dry. He’d had a laundry list of no-go items a mile long, but Bruce wasn’t any of the ignorant fucks who’d given rise to said list in the first place. He set his hands on Bruce’s hips, working his fingertips beneath Bruce’s waistband.

“How about we skip over _anything_ and get more specific,” Jeremiah managed. “You can…” He helped Bruce shove down his underthings, sighing at the sight of him. “Have me however you want.”

Bruce’s breath stuttered in his chest as he hastily discarded his briefs. “Are you sure?” he asked, helping Jeremiah could take off his own. “Is there any chance—” he faltered “—of, I wouldn’t want to risk—”’

“That wasn’t ever possible,” Jeremiah reassured Bruce, tugging him back down by the hips. “Insides didn’t match the outside, hormone injections took care of the rest.” He guided Bruce’s hand over his cock, which wasn’t ever going to have the same advantage of length. “ _Fuck_.”

Bending down to kiss Jeremiah, Bruce ran one of his fingers through the slickness beneath, slipping it inside.

“It won’t hurt?” he asked, pressing deeper, unable to pretend he wanted it slow any more than Jeremiah could. 

“Of course not,” Jeremiah said, too snappishly. “I’ve made a point of—I know what I can handle,” he clarified, giving Bruce’s erection a few strokes before guiding him down. “Would you get your fingers out of the— _oh_ ,” he sighed as Bruce eased inside him.

Bruce hid his face in Jeremiah’s neck, trembling already. He’d settled flush against Jeremiah, buried deep, panting high and shallow against Jeremiah’s skin. He wasn’t even moving, too overwhelmed to react.

“I can’t,” Bruce rasped, breath hitching when Jeremiah wrapped one leg around him. “You feel…”

Jeremiah couldn’t even understand how the slight, back-and-forth press of their hips was already driving him out of his mind. He wrapped his arms around Bruce, holding him there, not even ashamed now.

“Whatever you need,” Jeremiah whispered, mortified at how close he was himself.

“Fuck,” Bruce gasped, jerking helplessly against him. “I didn’t… _fuck_. Sorry, I just…”

Jeremiah nodded wildly, until all he could do was groan and shake along with him.

They lay there for a while afterward—too shy to look each other in the eyes just yet, too lazy to move. Bruce lifted his head, his flushed cheeks and mussed hair too endearing for words. He bit his lip, looking like he might speak.

Jeremiah kissed him, thinking it might spare them the indignity. Instead, they kept at it until Bruce squirmed restlessly, ready to give it another shot. Jeremiah flipped him over on his back, enjoying Bruce’s dazed expression.

They managed a better rhythm, hard and fast enough for both of them to get off again.

“I want to try something else,” Bruce murmured afterward, clingy and pliant. “Later.”

Jeremiah kissed Bruce’s forehead and cheeks and neck, no better off. “Only after I do.”

Bruce dug his fingertips into Jeremiah’s shoulder blades, content. “We’re not presentable.”

“Spent too much time trying to convince people I was,” Jeremiah replied, grinning. “I quit.”


	8. Prerequisite

Just before the one-week point of their bizarre cohabitation, Five had taken a shot at the maze with Jerome in tow. Those ten hours, Jerome was never going to get back—and it had left him so exasperated that he didn’t seek Five’s company again for another two days.

Meanwhile, Five had taken the isolation in stride, perhaps understanding what he’d inflicted on Jerome in seeking intellectual satisfaction. He’d made food and left it outside Jerome’s door, though, like clockwork, which made Jerome feel like maybe _he_ was the asshole.

On the third morning, when Jerome heard Five approach, he opened the door without warning.

Five was so startled he almost dropped the plate of toast with jam he carried, and then scowled.

“Hey, uh…” Jerome took the plate off Five’s hands, and then stepped into the hall, which softened Five’s disgruntlement. “Mind if I join you?”

“About time,” grumbled Five, unconvincingly. He wanted to smile, but wasn’t letting himself.

Jerome took his habitual seat across from Five at the table, watching as Five dug back into his toast with the usual half-starved, no-manners approach he seemed to favor. He snickered, more in delight than anything.

Five stopped chewing for a long, comical moment, and then swallowed. “Is it the way I eat?”

“Nah, princess,” Jerome said, taking a bite of his own, talking through it to prove a point. “It’s that you don’t give two shits. I respect that.”

Five shrugged. “Nobody in the lab ever scolded me. Kathryn Monroe, who used to run the Court of Owls—when I lived with her, learning to be Bruce so I could impersonate him for a while—tried to train it out of me. It worked, but once I got found out, Bruce came back, and I left Wayne Manor…” He shrugged again, brushing crumbs off his chin. “I didn’t care anymore.”

“Hear, hear,” Jerome responded approvingly, banging his fork and knife against the tabletop.

Five grinned at him, eyes almost bashfully lowered. He reached for his mug, realized it was empty, and then reached across the table.

“Sorry,” Five said under his breath, hastily gathering both mugs to his chest, rising. “I’ll get…”

Jerome noticed something he’d never noticed before, maybe because Five had been wearing reasonably high necklines up until now. Five’s tank top and hoodie had ridden low in the back, his neck visible thanks to his hair being swept up in a messy bun.

“Where’d you get that?” Jerome asked, catching the hem of his hoodie, halting him. “The scar?”

Five sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. He turned, set the mugs down next to Jerome’s plate, and shed the hoodie in a fit of the same tense, confrontational anger that Jerome had first admired in him.

“Where do you think?” Five asked, dropping to a crouch next to Jerome’s chair. “Indian Hill.”

Jerome felt something akin to horror, even though he hadn’t felt that in quite some time, as Five reached back to tug down his tank top as far as he could. The scar continued down his spine, God knew how far. Jerome turned in his chair, knees almost brushing Five’s shoulder blades.

“Even though I’ve seen my files,” Five said, relaxing somewhat as Jerome set tentative fingertips on his shoulders, the moment oddly fragile, “I don’t understand what the procedure _did_. Which thing, I mean.”

“Which…thing?” Jerome echoed, quieter than he’d meant it to come out. “What…” He froze as Five guided one of his hands over to touch the faded line, stifling a sigh when Jerome, without thinking, dipped his thumb further beneath Five’s shirt to feel the extent. “What did they do?”

“My strength and reflexes,” Five explained. “I wasn’t born like this, although…I _was_ born, just…also engineered. One of the reasons I look so much like Bruce is that they did something complicated, in vitro fertilization of two different eggs using…genetic material from both of Bruce’s parents, _plus_ the surrogate. That was Kathryn. I didn’t know she was secretly being literal when she said the Court was my parents.”

Withdrawing his hand in faint shame, Jerome set his hands back on Five’s shoulders, mortified at how they’d begun to shake. If Five was starting to cry, he was seriously out of his depth—but he remembered Five’s panic the night they’d arrived, the way he hadn’t hesitated to fling himself into Jerome’s arms as they’d descended in the elevator. Five’s trust was humbling.

“Princess, c’mere,” Jerome said, tugging Five up and into his lap, wrapping his arms around Five’s waist. His heart lurched as Five turned sideways and wrapped his arms around Jerome’s shoulders, burying his face against Jerome’s neck. “None of that’s your fault.”

“Yeah, but I’m a freak,” Five said venomously, a few traces of tears wetting Jerome’s skin. “They did something else, made it so that…” He reached out with one arm, grabbing Jerome’s knife from the table, and then released Jerome. “Watch.”

Jerome wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but when Five sliced the underside of his own arm—not the only such scar to appear there, as if Five had made a habit—Jerome knocked the knife out of Five’s hand. He pulled Five back against his chest.

“What the hell are you doing,” he demanded, realizing there was panic in his voice. “Five—”

“Showing you I can’t feel it,” Five sniffled, getting blood on Jerome’s shirt as he put his arms around Jerome again. “I’m lucky I can feel anything.”

Jerome held Five for a while, until he cried himself out. He carried Five to the bathroom when it was clear the wound needed tending, which was no easy feat. For as slight as Five was in comparison to Jerome, he was solid enough, what with that wiry strength.

When Jerome tried to imagine ever wanting to do this for Bruce, what he felt was disdain—sheer disdain at himself for once thinking Bruce _might_ have been worth it. Jeremiah was welcome to him.

Five didn’t speak while Jerome knelt and tended to him, just watched in subdued detachment.

After Jerome finished cleaning and placing a few butterfly bandages across the several-inch injury, he put a piece of gauze overtop and taped it in place. Thank fucking God for Jeremiah’s paranoid streak. The bunker had enough medical supplies for WWIII.

Slumping forward, Five rested his forehead against Jerome’s. “I’m sorry,” he said wearily.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jerome said, because if he’d tried to say anything else, it would’ve been something he’d regret. “One way or another, Strange is gonna die.”

Five nodded, pliant and trusting as Jerome got to his feet, tugging him along. He didn’t protest when Jerome slid an awkward arm around his waist to keep him on his feet, letting his head fall against Jerome’s shoulder as they walked back into the main room.

Not sure what else to do, Jerome deposited Five on the bed, went back to get their plates, and returned. They finished breakfast in silence, sitting with their backs against the headboard. By the time they were done, Five was suffering from an emotional exhaustion Jerome knew too well.

Against Jerome’s better judgment, he let Five fall asleep in his arms, and then dozed off, too.

When Jerome woke up, he was lying on his back. Five was no longer cuddled up to him, instead sitting silent and cross-legged next to him on the mattress. He took Jerome’s hand, which by now signaled connection.

“I didn’t tell you everything,” Five said. “I did some exploring in the last few days.” He inhaled sharply, as if he expected to be chastised for what was coming next. “I went through Jeremiah’s papers in his workspace. I saw some stuff in the trash that made me wonder. I found medical records.”

Jerome nodded calmly, rubbing the back of Five’s hand with his thumb. “That so, princess?”

Five’s conflicted expression swiftly faded. “It’s like you said. There’s something with his biology that’s different.” He appeared to struggle with what he wanted to say next. “With yours, too?”

Jerome shook his head. “Nope. One tiny thing’s different, go figure. Well, you know—aside from—” He indicated his facial scars with a sweeping gesture, grimacing. “That ain’t genetic.”

Biting his lip, Five set Jerome’s hand back on his chest. “Because of what happened with the way they made me,” he said haltingly, “I’m messed-up, too. I hinted at it when we met. With your brother, it’s a failure to process androgens, but with me it’s chromosomes. Mine are wrong.”

 _Pretty, precious thing,_ Jerome wanted to say. _There isn’t a damn thing wrong with you._ Instead, he cleared his throat and reached up to flip some loose tendrils of hair over Five’s shoulder, smiling at him. “Don’t care about any of that. Keep talkin’ if you want.”

“Both eggs were implanted, I guess,” Five said, lapsing into a monotone, “in Kathryn. Hedging their bets. They only thought one would make it, but both did. They thought she’d have twins.”

Jerome sat up partway, propping himself on his elbows. “Are you saying there’s a third—”

“No!” Five said vehemently. “There’s _me_. The eggs fused. That’s how I’m XX,XY.”

What were the chances, Jerome wondered, of any of this? From the almost-twins connection in both respects—fused eggs and Bruce alike—to the fact that Five and Jeremiah had a broad class of biological variant in common. It made Jerome’s head spin.

“I realize that’s a lot,” Five said, getting off the bed. “I want to read some more. Also, um…thanks.”

Jerome stared at the polished-concrete ceiling for a long time after he left, feeling dread and longing in equal measure. Jeremiah’s voice was all he could hear in his head, asking him— _Who’s the hypocrite now?_

For the rest of the day, Jerome watched television, switching listlessly between stations. He saw Five come in a few times, usually to grab a drink or a snack. They ate dinner alone, at separate times.

“Good night!” Five shouted near midnight, rousing Jerome from fitful slumber. “Jerome?”

“Yeah, princess!” Jerome called groggily, switching off the bedside lamp. “Sleep tight!”

As an afterthought, Jerome switched off the television, too. He lay down, grateful he hadn’t changed out of his pajama-set all day. Jeremiah’s pajamas, really, but he was way too tired to split hairs.

Jerome sat up at the sudden sound of the door swishing open. He wasn’t on the highest alert, because it could only be one of two people: either Harley or Five. And Harley was at her place in the city, so…

Five moved almost soundlessly through the dark, only his breathing audible in the stillness. He turned on the kitchen light as he passed it, casting a long shadow toward Jerome where he sat motionless and entranced in Jeremiah’s bed. 

“Hey, princess,” Jerome said, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Everything okay?”

Instead of responding, Five met Jerome’s eyes. His fingers crept to his braid, drawing it slowly forward over his shoulder. He plucked the elastic out of it, let it fall on the floor, and stepped right into Jerome’s personal space.

“If you need something,” Jerome said, swallowing, “you’re gonna have to tell me. I’m not psychic like my old man, or—or even an empath, so—”

“I can’t sleep,” Five replied. He fussed at the tie of his kimono, so close Jerome felt his heat.

Jerome understood what was happening. The thought terrified him as much as it excited him. No sense in denying it, not when his body flushed at the thought of Five stepping forward to press him down onto the bed. He _was_ falling for Five, and he couldn’t help but feel relieved that an emotional connection had been a necessary prerequisite to…this.

“Well, tonight’s your lucky night,” Jerome quipped, finding himself hoarser than usual as he reached to take Five’s hands. “Neither can I.”

Five took hold of Jerome’s fingers, pulling himself forward. He shifted to straddle Jerome’s lap, settling against him with a sigh. He set Jerome’s hands on his hips, and then wrapped his arms around Jerome’s neck. He nuzzled Jerome’s cheek, breathing even faster than before.

“Please let me stay here,” Five implored, brushing his lips against one of the scars that curved upward from the corner of Jerome’s mouth. “Do…” He swallowed, running his fingers fretfully through Jerome’s hair. “Do you want…”

“Precious,” Jerome said, bumping his nose against Five’s cheek, “there’s nothin’ I want more.”

“I’m glad,” Five murmured, nervously elated, pushing Jerome down flat on his back. “Me too.”

Jerome stared dazedly up at Five, grasping Five’s hips so hard it would’ve been uncomfortable if Five could feel pain. Five was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, backlit by the kitchen light’s orange glow. His braid had all but fallen undone.

“Can I, uh…” Jerome stumbled, but recovered when Five smiled. “Can I touch your hair?”

Five nodded, tugging Jerome’s hand up. He worked at the kimono’s belt, closing his eyes as Jerome finished loosening the strands of his braid.

“Can I take this off?” Five asked, the belt’s silk knot almost completely untied in his grasp.

Jerome nodded with reverence, still combing his fingers through the unruly spill of Five’s ruined braid. He watched as Five parted the kimono and let it fall off his shoulders, exposing his chest and belly. Jerome couldn’t avoid touching Five’s skin now as he stroked Five’s hair.

“Like I said before,” Jerome managed, heart-rate hitting the ceiling when Five guided Jerome’s hand from his collarbone down to a scar low on his left side, “if there’s somethin’ you need…”

“I’ll ask,” Five said, running his hands over Jerome’s undershirt-covered chest. “I promise.”

Jerome captured one of Five’s hands and kissed the back of it, lingering over Five’s skin.

“Whatever you wanna do to me,” he said with firm resolve, “just go right ahead. I’m yours.”

Five bent low over Jerome and kissed him. Startling, to realize they hadn’t begun with this—that they’d talked and touched instead. Five’s lips were dry and cool against Jerome’s, strangely comforting, until Five licked cautiously at the corner of Jerome’s mouth.

Jerome cradled the back of Five’s head with one hand, sliding the other desperately from Five’s hip around to the exposed small of his back. He could feel where Five’s spinal scar ended, rubbing at it as the electric jolt of Five’s clever tongue coaxed Jerome’s lips to part.

Five wasn’t quiet anymore, each soft sound making Jerome shiver. He’d been aware they were both aroused from the moment Five pinned him, but the fact Five had tugged up Jerome’s undershirt meant Jerome could feel Five’s erection against his belly. Whatever Five’s difference meant in terms of his external appearance, he was maybe slightly under average. So what.

“You’re really hard,” Five said between kisses, endearingly breathless. “You said I could…”

Jerome guided the least busy of Five’s hands from his chest down to the front of his boxers. Jerome hissed the next time their lips met, thighs trembling as Five stroked him through the fabric. If he came like this, before they’d even fully undressed, he wouldn’t even feel sorry.

“Not gonna last long, darlin’,” Jerome laughed breathlessly, nuzzling the curve of Five’s neck when Five stopped touching him and hid his face in the skewed comforter. “Anyway, I’d say it’s not fair you’re naked and I’m not, but…I’m probably the lucky one here.”

Five lifted his head. He sat up just enough to guide one of Jerome’s hands to his cock, mouth falling open when Jerome cupped and rubbed at him.

“But I’m even luckier,” Five rasped, letting that go on for only a few more seconds before rolling off of Jerome and pushing the tangle of his kimono to the floor. He shoved at Jerome until he shifted, making sure neither of their feet were dangling off the edge of the bed. “Take these off,” he said, plucking at Jerome’s damp boxers and undershirt.

Jerome sat up and shed his undershirt. Probably sensing Jerome’s hesitation over the waistband of his boxers, Five leaned in and kissed him again, and then pointedly, patiently turned his back.

“Right,” Jerome sighed, shoving his boxers down and off his hips. He kicked them on the floor.

Five was in Jerome’s arms before he could say it was fine to look. He pulled Jerome close, rolling so that, this time, he was the one on his back.

Jerome never wanted to forget the sight of Five’s hair disarrayed against the bedclothes—Five’s restless, unblinking eyes so full of reassurance.

“I want you,” Five insisted, hauling Jerome the rest of the way on top of him. “Like this.”

“Five,” Jerome groaned, not even sure what he meant to say next. Five’s skin was hot against his, and the only thing better than how it felt to be this close was the way Five trapped him there, his legs wrapped tight around Jerome’s hips. “Want you, too, precious.”

Five squirmed and panted, impatient. “Okay, so I’ve heard it feels better if you _move_.” 

Jerome took the initiative this time, kissing from Five’s jaw to his earlobe. He ground down against Five, realizing with a helpless gasp that it was only ever going to take holding and being held. He shuddered through his orgasm, whining against Five’s pulse-point.

“Oh,” Five whimpered, tangling his fingers urgently in Jerome’s hair. He hitched his legs up tighter, knees digging so mercilessly into Jerome’s ribs that he’d probably leave bruises. “ _Fuck_.”

Jerome felt hazy and boneless, euphoric, but he had enough presence of mind to hold Five close and murmur to him. He told Five how pretty he was—how deadly, how sexy, how brave. Five’s climax lasted a long time, each kiss and each roll of Jerome’s hips drawing it out.

Jerome was looking down at him now, awed, running his fingers through Five’s tangled hair.

“That…” Five tried to speak, mouth parched, finally wheezing on a laugh. “Felt really good.”

Overcome with emotion he wasn’t ready to confront just yet, Jerome kissed him. “Sure did.”

Five disentangled his fingers from Jerome’s hair. He glided his fingertips from Jerome’s scarred forehead down the periphery of his face, his palms coming to rest on Jerome’s cheeks. His eyes were so expressive that Jerome could read the same terror there, the same longing.

“Will you stay with me?” Five asked, painfully earnest. “I won’t ask for anything unreasonable, I promise. I don’t care if…if you can’t say…”

Jerome brushed the sudden tears from beneath Five’s eyes, somberly kissing each closed lid.

“You’re exhausted, princess,” Jerome said, rolling them onto their sides so he could hold Five properly. “And I guess…” He breathed out, aware of their pounding hearts and how sticky they were. “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?” Five blurted, not quite full-on crying. He rested his head on Jerome’s shoulder.

“ _Yeah_ , I’ll stay with you,” Jerome replied fiercely. “Just as long as you’re not gonna…”

“How could I leave you,” Five whispered, and it wasn’t even a question. “You’re mine.”

Yawning, Jerome nodded, mind fuzzy with pleasure deeper than what they’d just done.

However many hours later, he woke up with a comatose Five half-sprawled over him and the mess on their bellies all dry. He made a faint noise of disgust, but it didn’t keep him from kissing Five’s sleep-flushed cheek once, and then twice, and then _again_.

“No,” Five mumbled, clutching tighter at Jerome. “No. Less’tay here. Please. M’too tired.”

“Sweet pea,” Jerome said, “you know Harley’s gonna show up soon to have breakfast with us. She promised. We didn’t really plan the, uh…”

“Sex?” Five asked, endearingly straightforward as always. He grinned when Jerome blushed.

“Yep,” Jerome agreed, picking at a patch of skin on his belly just to make a point. “That.”

Five kissed Jerome’s cheek, swift and slightly shy. “Let’s take a shower. I want to suck you off.”

Jerome rolled onto his back, hauling Five on top of him as they kissed. Jerome wasn’t hard, but Five was. For some reason, he had the notion Five might be easily offended by a rebuff. He drew out the kiss, considering his words.

“You don’t need to do that, precious,” Jerome said, pressing his fingertip to Five’s nose. “You wore me out last night. But…” He rubbed his thigh against Five’s erection, watching Five close his eyes and catch his lower lip between his teeth. “I’ll blow _you_ if you want.”

The offer became an instant non-issue, like Five’s to Jerome. Five shuddered in Jerome’s arms, clamping Jerome’s thigh between his own.

Jerome played with Five’s hair, soothing him through it. “Pretty, pretty baby. Feels nice?”

“Yes,” Five whispered when he could find his breath again, sagging atop Jerome. “Thanks.”

“Uh, no,” said Jerome, desperately out of his depth, to think this might be love. “Thank _you_.”

Over breakfast a little under an hour later, when Five crossed into the kitchen to refill his mug with hot water, Harley fixed Jerome with an accusatory look. She was likely tired enough of Jeremiah’s bullshit, let alone Jerome’s in addition.

“Did you _really_ …?” Harley hissed, shaking her head when Jerome’s expression betrayed his silence. “Seriously, I dunno whether to say congrats or tell ya to watch your back! J’s gonna be ripshit if you did it in his bed.”

“Congrats would be polite,” Five called from the stove. “Jerome, do you want instant coffee?”

“Sure, princess,” said Jerome, grinning, satisfied when Harley hid her face in her folded arms.


	9. Odd Favor

For several days following Harley’s report that she was having breakfast with Jerome and Five, Jeremiah was almost grateful not to hear from her again. He tried not to feel guilty, reminding himself that she’d chosen them.

Bruce was even more solicitous now that they were lovers. He kept Jeremiah close, refusing to let Jeremiah out of his sight for long. He had Alfred see to Jeremiah’s needs first, which was as exasperating as it was flattering.

They retired early and slept late, exhausted after talking and exploring each other’s bodies long into morning. Jeremiah savored the ache Bruce had left inside him, although Bruce was mortified. He insisted on pleasuring Jeremiah by other means until it faded.

Bruce made the loveliest sounds when Jeremiah returned the favor. Jeremiah stroked Bruce gently, pressing his fingers just behind Bruce’s balls until those gasps turned to cries. The second time, with Bruce’s assent, Jeremiah fingered him properly.

If Alfred thought anything of them sharing Bruce’s bed now, he tactfully made no comment.

When Jeremiah’s phone woke them on the fourth morning, strident in spite of being set to vibrate, Jeremiah declined the call without noting the number. He rolled over, kissed Bruce until they were both aroused, and guided Bruce inside him before Bruce could protest.

The caller didn’t try again until they were showered, dressed, and eating breakfast on Bruce’s wicker sofa in the conservatory. When Jeremiah noticed that it was a FaceTime request from Jerome, his gut clenched. He answered, using some books on the glass-topped coffee table to prop the phone. When Jeremiah beckoned, Bruce scooted closer to participate.

Jerome was sitting up in bed, in a mostly-darkened room that Jeremiah recognized was his as the image came into focus. Jeremiah supposed that Jerome using his bed made sense, especially if he’d given the spare room to Five. Still, it rankled.

“Don’t you two look chipper,” Jerome remarked, raking both hands through his disheveled hair.

“What’s going on?” Jeremiah asked, watching Jerome reach to one side, fussing with something. “Harley’s been keeping me updated.”

“Haven’t seen her since she was here a few days ago,” Jerome said. “She won’t pick up her phone. Trust me, I’ve been tryin’ for twenty-four hours.”

“She lives alone, doesn’t she?” Bruce asked, taking over when he realized Jerome was too paralyzed to respond. “Did she say she had any plans?”

“Nope,” Jerome said. Without warning, he turned sideways, leaning out-of-frame. “ _Shhh_ ,” he murmured, just loud enough. “Sorry for wakin’ you.”

Jeremiah exchanged glances with Bruce, turning back when Jerome situated himself back in-frame. It seemed like an unprecedented mind-game, even for Jerome—but it was possible Harley was there, in bed with him, and this was their way of announcing it.

“I haven’t heard from her since the day she was last there with you,” Jeremiah said, glaring.

Just then, the sound of a second voice was unmistakable. Irritably, it mumbled, “Who’s that?”

Jerome leaned over again. “I bit the bullet,” he said, and there was no mistaking the sound of him kissing whoever it was. “Called the bro and Bruce. They gotta know about this, like you said last night.”

“About the Harley situation, yeah,” mumbled the second speaker, “but they won’t like _this_.”

“Is…” Jeremiah looked to Bruce, attempting to keep his whisper unobtrusive. “Is that…”

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce replied, eyes fixed on the phone-screen with horrified fascination.

“I don’t give a care, precious,” Jerome said soothingly, “and neither should you. They can deal.” He sat up again, and one of Five’s arms snaked around his waist. “Late night,” he said, attempting to sound apologetic. “Been hard for us to sleep, worryin’ about her.”

Yawning, Five hauled himself up beside Jerome and curled partway into Jerome’s lap, his head on Jerome’s shoulder. His long, dark hair was loose, covering most of his face as he nuzzled into the crook of Jerome’s neck. Jerome gathered Five closer, smoothing Five’s hair.

“S’true,” Five mumbled. Not looking up, he waved vaguely at Jerome’s phone-screen.

“Do you have any way of tracking her device?” Bruce asked, glancing from Jerome to Jeremiah.

“I don’t, but I bet J does,” Jerome said, the use of Harley’s nickname for Jeremiah clearly intended to wound. He rocked Five a little, stroking Five’s hair back enough to kiss Five’s temple. “Seriously, I’d get on that if I were you. This city ain’t exactly safe for her.”

Jeremiah was seized with rage. How could they claim to be losing sleep over Harley when it was obvious they were wrapped up in each other?

“Have you even _tried_ leaving the bunker to search the woods?” Jeremiah demanded.

Bruce opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, but closed it instantly as Jerome scowled.

“After what happened to Uncle Zach, d’you think I’d even _risk_ taking princess up there?”

Five lifted his head and turned Jerome’s face toward him, kissing him deeply. “Wait here a sec.”

Jerome watched Five roll away from him, vanish out-of-frame, and presumably leave the room.

“Has Five been all right?” Bruce asked, before Jeremiah could say anything disparaging.

“Yeah,” Jerome said, narrowing his eyes at Bruce. “Now I’m suspicious, why d’you ask?”

“Last I saw him, a couple years ago,” Bruce replied, “he wasn’t well. He had nosebleeds.”

Jerome’s scowl intensified, and then shifted into something almost scared. “And…?”

Jeremiah watched Bruce close in on himself for the briefest of moments before answering.

“The danger’s probably past,” Bruce said, shaking his head at himelf. “Forget I asked.”

Before Jerome could push for more information, something on the far side of the room, near the kitchen, drew his wide-eyed, immediate attention. Five’s footsteps got closer, his harsh breathing audible.

“I can see something on the feeds,” Five panted offscreen. “You need to take a look at this.”

Jerome gave Jeremiah and Bruce a contemptuous look and hung up. The screen went dark.

“Can’t believe it,” Jeremiah said, knocking his phone down in disgust. “How could they—”

“Do what we’re doing?” Bruce asked, shrugging. “It’s not like they stole our idea. They’re separate people from us. They think differently, feel differently.” He seemed pensive. “They complement each other, though. I’m glad they’re not lonely.”

“Relieved that two of the most dangerous people we know are together now?” Jeremiah deadpanned, realizing how hypocritical he sounded. “They might be perfect for each other, but weren’t they…hasty?”

Bruce gave him a look that suggested he was being foolish. “Weren’t we?” he countered.

Jeremiah knew that he was right, but it was cold comfort. “We’ll need to go out there.”

Nodding, Bruce got to his feet. “I suppose you’re right. We need to find out what they saw. We need to work with them, not against them. I’m ashamed of not trying harder to bring them here.”

“Well, at the time,” Alfred said, coming in to whisk away their plates, “I expressly forbade it.”

“They’re in trouble, Alfred,” Bruce replied. “So is Harley. She hasn’t communicated for days.”

“Far be it for me to stop you,” Alfred said, fixing Jeremiah with a worried look. “You all right?”

Jeremiah stood, shaking his head. “Harley has devoted her life to me. We need to find her.”

Attempting to track Harley’s phone turned up zero results—the device was offline, untraceable.

Armed with a healthy amount of apprehension and a pair of pistols from Alfred, they arrived on-site slightly over an hour later. There was nothing visible in the immediate radius covered by Jeremiah’s surveillance, so they descended with their apprehension transforming into dread.

They searched Jerome’s workspace, and then watched the maze security feeds first, wondering if Jeremiah and Five might withdraw there if they felt threatened. There was no sign of them on the feeds, so they checked the rooms on the bunker’s main central hall one at a time. 

The spare bedroom was empty, but a wreck, littered with possessions clearly belonging to Five. Jeremiah led Bruce to the end of the hall, giving the command for his own living quarters to open.

The kitchen area no longer smelled of smoke like Harley claimed it had, although the table was covered in used dishes. Bruce investigated the cupboards, which seemed like a silly thing to do, while Jeremiah walked slowly toward the unmade bed.

Spaces shared by the newly enamored, he now knew, gave the intruder a sense of committing violation. The sheets were rucked and, in one visible spot, stained. Several strands of Five’s long, dark hair were visible on the pillow to the left of Jerome’s.

“Your sharpest knives are missing,” Bruce said, coming over to join Jeremiah in staring at the bed. “Whatever Five saw outside, they took it with them. They must have an idea where to go.”

Jeremiah grabbed Bruce’s hand, leading him back out to the hall and into his workspace. He rummaged in his top desk drawer, realizing the hand-gun had vanished. Some part of him felt better knowing Jerome and Five were armed. He felt around beneath the desk until he ran across the key-ring taped there. He peeled it free, holding it up for Bruce to see.

“Whether Harley’s apartment is where they’ve gone or not, we should,” Jeremiah said resolutely.

Twenty minutes was a slower arrival than Jeremiah would have liked, but traffic was dismal. The ground floor of Harley’s building was silent, as was the elevator and the hall leading to her apartment. It was deserted, and there was no trace of her phone, wallet, or favorite shoes.

The weight of the situation struck Jeremiah full-force. If he hadn’t been so proud, so selfish, so suspicious, this could have been avoided. He should have insisted that she, Jerome, and Five would be at too much risk if they didn’t come with him and Bruce. He should have…

Bruce came over to Harley’s sofa and sank down beside Jeremiah, taking his hand. “Don’t.”

“You don’t understand,” Jeremiah said despondently. “My selfishness always drives me to this.”

“Drives you to what, losing people that you care about?” Bruce asked. “You haven’t lost me.”

“I don’t think you get it,” Jeremiah said. “What I did to Jerome when I was younger, it was…unforgivable. Maybe you’re too biased now to see that.”

Bruce didn’t seem to be listening. He squeezed Jeremiah’s hand and got up, urging him along.

“You won’t like where we’re going next, but…” He held the door for Jeremiah on their way out, moving faster down the hall than ever. “If there’s anywhere information can be bought, it’s the Iceberg.”

“Penguin’s club?” Jeremiah asked, attempting to keep the disdain from his voice. “You’d _pay_?”

“I’ll pay for anything that’s necessary,” Bruce insisted, his voice hard. “I owe Jerome more than you’d like to believe, too. As for Five, I’ve done worse by him than anyone. I should have insisted that Alfred and I follow him the night he left. Tracked him down. He’s family.”

“You’ll look past anything, won’t you,” Jeremiah marveled, “if you feel enough obligation?”

Bruce hit the elevator button, waiting for it to arrive. Once it did, he pulled Jeremiah inside.

Jeremiah hadn’t been expecting a kiss so brutally possessive, but he’d let Bruce do anything he wanted without protest if it meant being kissed like this again, regularly, for as long as they managed to survive. His knees felt weak.

“That’s not what this is,” Bruce insisted. “With you, there’s nothing to look past.”

Jeremiah felt the rush of weightlessness, the drop of any and all support as they hurtled downward, more keenly than ever before. He kissed Bruce back, and, for whatever reason, _this_ was what made him understand what he’d seen in the effortless tenderness Jerome had shown Five.

“Thank you,” he managed, breathing hard against Bruce’s lips as they came to a stop.

It was far too early in the day for the Iceberg Lounge to be open, but Bruce seemed to know something the general public didn’t. Cobblepot’s security detail at the back entrance waved the two of them inside without Bruce even having to resort to cash.

On their way past the bar on the dark, opulently decorated ground floor, one of the three bored-looking young women engaged in an argument there hopped down from her stool. She dashed to catch up with them, punching Bruce’s arm when he finally stopped.

“Hey, Bruce,” said the blonde, eyeing Jeremiah with confused suspicion. “Who the hell’s this?”

“Selina,” Bruce said. “This is Jeremiah Valeska. We don’t have time to talk. Is Oswald here?”

“Guess it’s true, what’s been in the media about Jerome havin’ a twin brother,” Selina said, whistling as she looked Jeremiah up and down. “Weird to think that clown was good-looking once. Boss is upstairs. I’ll take you.”

“Is she always like this?” Jeremiah asked Bruce. Talking about Selina like she wasn’t there was fitting comeuppance for having been ogled.

“Yes,” Bruce and Selina said in unison, which was as eerie as the rest of the day’s happenings.

Selina led them off the elevator and into a room with a cathedral-style window. She told them to sit down, and then knocked on a nearby door.

As Selina was leaving, the door swung open. Oswald Cobblepot was a less imposing physical presence than Jeremiah would have expected, but Edward Nygma made up the difference. Taken together, they were intimidating.

“Mr. Wayne,” Oswald said, taking the seat across from Bruce. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Family trouble related to this one, I’d bet anything,” Edward said, settling across from Jeremiah.

Bruce nodded at Edward. “This isn’t a social call. Jerome is somewhere in the city, and he has a former Foxglove employee with him. They’re looking for Jeremiah’s assistant, a woman by the name of Harley Eccles, who’s also a close friend of the family. She’s gone missing.”

“Let me guess,” Oswald said smugly. “You’d like to know if any of our informants might have heard anything about Ms. Eccles.”

Bruce just nodded, so Jeremiah kept his mouth firmly shut. He wouldn’t speak unless invited.

“First things first,” Edward said, steepling his fingers. “What does this Ms. Eccles look like?”

Jeremiah removed his wallet from his pocket and fished through his ID cards for the photo.

“This is the only one I have,” he said, handing over the tiny, glossy black-and-white. “We took it in a photo booth not long after we met. We’re seven or eight years younger here, but neither she, nor I has changed much.”

“Girlfriend?” Edward asked as he took the photo. “I have to say, there’s something familiar—”

“Harley is my best friend,” Jeremiah said, “and, as mentioned, also my personal assistant. She’s taken point when it comes to keeping tabs on Jerome. He gets on better with her than with me.”

Oswald was watching Bruce’s face like he could see something written there Edward couldn’t.

“I know where I’ve seen her,” Edward said, handing the photo back to Jeremiah. “She used to work at Bean Dreams across from the GU campus, didn’t she? Her nametag said Ecco. She had my three or four custom orders down pat.”

“That’s where I met her,” Jeremiah confirmed, impressed with Edward’s memory. “Harley did go by Ecco at that point in time. She was…vulnerable in a way that I was. In a way that we both still are.”

Bruce glanced sidelong at Jeremiah, reaching over to take his hand against the tabletop.

“I wondered when you’d drop the charade,” Oswald said, pleased with his observation. “What, did you think you’d be judged— _here_ , of all places?”

“No,” Bruce said, turning stern eyes on Oswald, “but we both value our privacy.”

“Vulnerable,” Edward said, tilting his head at Jeremiah, eyes behind his glasses alight. “D’you mean you were transitioning when she was?”

“We were both working on it,” Jeremiah said. “Did she tell you? If so, why did she trust you?”

“She was working the late shift, and I could see she was recovering from a serious injury,” Edward said, pointing at his neck. “We were the only two people there. She seemed really down and out. I wasn’t in a great place with myself on that front, either. We talked.”

Jeremiah remembered, with sudden, crushing clarity, what Harley had said not that long ago about Oswald and Edward. Perhaps she had no memory of speaking to Edward, or hadn’t connected the young man in the coffee shop, also caught up in gender trouble, with the man who’d become husband to the most powerful underworld kingpin in all of Gotham.

Oswald’s eyes moved rapidly from Edward to Jeremiah and back again. “We’ll help.”

“You already have,” Bruce said, nodding gratefully at Edward, “but…why so readily?”

“Because we seem to have a great deal in common with Ms. Eccles _and_ your young man.”

Disbelieving, Jeremiah decided he couldn’t stick to his self-assigned rule of silence any longer.

“The chance that both of you would be part of not just the broader queer community, but _this_ , too—”

“Enough sentimentality,” Edward said. “Let’s cut to the chase. Who would use her against you?”

“Hugo Strange,” Bruce said, before Jeremiah could even think clearly again. “Jerome was meant to kill the aforementioned Foxglove employee on Strange’s behalf when he got out of Arkham. This individual was…one of the monsters Fish Mooney led to safety. Jerome didn’t act fast enough upon his release, so when Strange, Tetch, and Crane broke out, the latter two attempted to gain entry to Jeremiah’s home to harm both him and Jerome. Tetch and Crane were apprehended and taken back to Arkham, but Strange is still on the loose.”

“Anything to add, Mr. Valeska?” Oswald asked. “You’ve chosen your partner quite well.”

“Nothing,” Jeremiah said, wondering why Bruce hadn’t mentioned Five’s name, or what was so peculiar about him above and beyond the fact Strange had meddled with him at Indian Hill. “That’s all.”

“My price,” Oswald went on, “is that, once we find them, you let us follow you to Strange.”

Jeremiah glanced at Bruce, shrugging. “That’s an odd favor to ask, but…I don’t see why not.”

“Not odd considering he tortured us, too,” Edward said with vicious glee. “ _We_ get to kill him.”


	10. Pinkie Swear

Jerome and Five had dressed hastily, shoving clothes and minimal provisions in Five’s backpack and in a rucksack Jerome had dug from Jeremiah’s closet. Five had taken Jeremiah’s best knives, and Jerome had claimed the hand-gun from Jeremiah’s desk.

They’d also grabbed what Five had seen on the ground at surface level—Harley’s favorite leather jacket, the black one with card-suit symbols on the front. Five had put it on, pleased that it fit, saying that it reminded him of a Renaissance doublet.

Jerome had told Five he didn’t have too much of a clue what that meant, but he looked hot in it.

Five insisted that they go back down, believing they should try to rewind the footage to see if they could discover why Harley had dropped the jacket. If it had been accidental, she might yet be safe. If somebody had taken her, they might find the perpetrator.

Jerome reminded him that he had no idea how to do such a thing manually with that bank of equipment. Even if he did, the security permissions were locked down tight. Five wasn’t happy to hear that only Harley had remote permissions on such access. Even Jeremiah had denied himself the capability, believing he’d never be offsite. Talk about a joke.

Now, they were on their long walk into the city, keeping away from main roads and places they’d be visible. Rummaging through the rucksack for snacks, Jerome turned out the pockets of the pants he’d worn home from Arkham. Harley’s choker fell out.

“Here, princess,” Jerome said, clasping it around Five’s neck, finding it didn’t need adjustment.

“What’s this?” Five asked, running his fingers admiringly over the black satin ribbon. “Yours?”

“Harley’s,” Jerome said. “She gave it to me for luck while I was still locked up. Wore it a bit.”

“Then it’s yours, too,” Five replied, taking the rucksack from Jerome, finding the food for him.

Once they finished eating and started walking again, it was early evening. Five walked with one knife in each hand, alert, while Jerome kept his hand on the gun in his pocket. The unacknowledged tension suggested they’d both like a reason to use them.

“We need to decide where we’re headed,” said Jerome, when it was clear, on reaching the base of an overpass spanning the river, that they wouldn’t be able to maintain cover much longer. “It’s not your fault we don’t know. I’m thinkin’ aloud. We shoulda talked about it sooner.”

“There’s always the Foxglove,” Five replied. “Anyone who’s someone important ends up there eventually. People go to trade information as much as they go to patronize the sex workers. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve learned, especially working that closely with Lucy.”

“So if somebody knows…” Jerome chewed his lip, staring up at the overpass. “We’ve gotta figure out what it is we need ’em to know, so we can frame the question. Kidnapping rumors, trafficking connections…”

Five turned to him slowly, expression clouded. “You said Tetch and Crane showed up at the bunker. They took your uncle hostage, at least as far as you know, and used him to gain access to the elevator?”

“Yeah,” Jerome confirmed. “I appreciated seein’ Uncle Zach get shot, but not so much the rest.”

“That means Strange knew where to send them,” Five said. “Strange knew where to abduct her.”

Jerome felt ridiculous for not having made that connection. “He thought my bro was still home.”

Five nodded. “Unless he had the place staked out 24/7, he doesn’t know we were there instead.”

“Never thought I’d say this,” Jerome said, “but I guess that means we’re looking for Strange.”

“I know you wanted to protect me from him,” Five replied. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”

“Here’s the thing,” Jerome said, taking Five’s arm. “J might be a dick, but Harley sure isn’t. Not to me, anyway. If there’s anyone in this world I’d help aside from you, it’s her.” He reconsidered his words. “Maybe I’d help J.”

“I won’t judge you for saying that,” Five insisted. “It makes sense. Jeremiah helped _you_.”

“Yeah, go figure,” Jerome sighed. “Makes you wonder what the hell’s wrong with him, huh?”

“Stop,” Five said, kissing Jerome’s cheek. “I helped you, too. Once you weren’t trying to kill me.”

“I’ll never make that mistake again, precious,” Jerome said. “I’d kill someone with you, though.”

Five’s eyes lit up. “You’d really do that? You’d even risk going back to Arkham again?”

“You’d be on your way there, too,” said Jerome. “I was in there three times. Never sticks.”

“I wouldn’t mind it so much, I think,” Five said pensively, “if I was in there with you.”

Just for that, Jerome wanted to stop and kiss Five for a while, but they needed to keep going.

They didn’t reach the Foxglove until nightfall. Five insisted that they stash their backpacks in the alley, not wanting to enter the club encumbered in case they found it necessary to leave in a hurry.

“Just realized,” Jerome said apprehensively as Five finished rummaging in his backpack for something and concealed it under the massive pile of cardboard next to Jerome’s, “we don’t have cash for the entry fee. We don’t have masks, either.”

Five showed off what he’d pulled from his backpack. The roll of cash looked fairly substantial.

“It’s only a few hundred,” Five said, “but I know who’s on the back door tonight. This’ll get us in and get us masks.” He tucked it in the pocket of his skirt, adjusting his camisole beneath his sheer long-sleeved top. “Don’t look at me like that. I saved it especially for an emergency.”

“You’re so clever,” Jerome said, tugging him in for a kiss. “Did I tell you that the other night?”

“The first time, when you were whispering in my ear?” Five asked, blushing. “No, you didn’t.”

Jerome found it easy enough to remember what that meant, because they hadn’t done much more than cuddle and share the bed. They’d fooled around some in the shower, though. Just thinking about Five’s sweet mouth on him— _and_ about putting his mouth on Five—made him shiver.

“I’m gonna tell you all that stuff more often,” Jerome said. “C’mon, you’re runnin’ this job.”

The bouncer, whoever she was, asked Five where the fuck he’d been and hugged him. Five told her to shut up and showed her the cash. She took it inside, came back with a pair of black masks that would cover their entire faces, and whisked them into the club.

They worked the floor for a while, and even had fun doing it. While Five wasn’t great at flirting when he had to talk, getting folks to take interest in him wasn’t difficult on account of being drop-dead gorgeous. He wasn’t the worst dancer Jerome had ever seen, either.

Jerome had assumed he’d need to rely on words more than anything else, but at least half the time somebody would approach him before he could zero in on them. Five looked dangerously jealous about the third time that happened, so Jerome backed him into a corner.

“Learnin’ anything?” Jerome asked, flipping up his mask. He buried his face in Five’s neck, kissing it hungrily. Easier to keep up the charade, now that he wasn’t pretending. There was still _just_ enough of a performance aspect to make it exciting.

“Y—yes,” Five gasped behind his mask, holding on tightly. “Wait! I mean, um—no? Not yet.”

Jerome couldn’t help chuckling at that, but it was his turn to gasp when Five grabbed his ass.

“Me neither,” he admitted shakily, biting down just beneath Five’s ear as Five groped him.

“We suck at espionage,” Five said dejectedly, turning his head. He flipped his mask up, catching Jerome’s mouth in a bruising kiss. “I hope you don’t mind…” He faltered, nuzzling Jerome’s cheek. “It’s cute.”

“What is?” Jerome asked, his mouth going dry. He had a good idea, but he wanted to hear it.

“You _know_ ,” Five hissed, flustered, squeezing Jerome’s backside again for emphasis.

“ _Mmm_ , you think so?” Jerome asked, pecking Five on the lips. He was sure nobody was paying them much mind, not least because they were being tame in comparison to everyone else. Their unspoken mutual agreement was reassuring.

“I know so,” Five said, adorably irked when Jerome snickered. “I’ve seen you without clothes.”

“So, d’you, uh...” Jerome swallowed and kissed him again, intoxicated. “Wanna fuck me?”

Five exhaled harshly, taking his turn to swallow hard. “Yes,” he said fervently. “When?”

Before Jerome could respond, somebody behind them caused Five to stiffen and re-mask.

“You have five minutes to get out,” said a dignified, disgruntled voice, “or I notify security.”

Five nodded, tugging Jerome’s mask back over his face. “Of course, ma’am. Right away.”

Even though Five grabbed Jerome’s hand, Jerome could scarcely keep up. He nearly tripped, relieved when he didn’t. The last thing Five needed was Jerome slowing him down. Back in the alley, Five dug out their stuff, frantically shoving the rucksack at Jerome.

“Close one,” Jerome panted, shouldering the pack, only to realize Five was ready to grab his hand and tear off again. “What was that all about?”

“That was Lucy,” Five explained unhappily, breaking into a run as soon as he was sure Jerome was ready. “She’s going to notify security anyway!”

Badly winded, Jerome pulled Five around the next corner and held him close, trying to think.

“I know a place we can go,” he panted. “Shoulda thought of this first. D’you know Jeri?”

“At Celestial Garden?” Five asked, cradling Jerome’s head against his shoulder. “I met her, but it was a while ago. She might not remember me.”

“She remembers you all right,” Jerome said. He closed his eyes, grateful for the respite. “She helped me out a week or so before I met you. Long story. Anyhow, she mentioned…”

Five hadn’t stiffened, precisely, but his body language had changed. “She told you where to find me.”

“Princess, I didn’t _know_ …” Jerome tried to pull back, at a loss. “Yeah. I can’t change—”

Five kissed him quiet, stroking Jerome’s cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m never gonna get it through your head, am I,” Jerome sighed, “that this is all on me?”

“It’s on Strange,” Five said resolutely, stepping back, urging Jerome forward. “C’mon.”

Getting into Celestial Garden went about the way it had the first time around, only Jerome had the added benefit of a gun in reserve. He didn’t realize Five had kept the points of his knives visible until they were inside and on their way up the stairs.

The entrance to Jeri’s residence didn’t have a lock, at least not on the dressing-room part, so Jerome let them in. Once they’d removed their backpacks, Jerome flopped on the sofa and tugged Five down in his lap.

“Are you sure Jeri will help us?” Five murmured, playing idly with Jerome’s lapels. He seemed to love pressing their foreheads together, that and touching Jerome’s face, as much as Jerome loved playing with Five’s hair.

“About ninety-nine percent,” Jerome replied, unpinning Five’s hair the rest of the way. Their mad dash shaken it partway loose—a wild, attractive spill framing Five’s face. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

Five kissed Jerome deeply, stifling an unreadable sound low in his throat. Jerome sank further back into the cushions, shifting beneath Five’s weight. It always felt good like this, with Five straddling him and controlling their movements.

“Hey, this ain’t a brothel!” Jeri said loudly as she barged into the room, sounding more tired than annoyed. When Five turned to face her, shifting out of Jerome’s lap, her jaw dropped. “Anybody care to explain?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Five said, folding his hands primly in his lap. “This wasn’t…very polite of us.”

“Hey, J, will ya look at that?” Jeri said, eyeing Jerome critically as he scrambled to sit up and straighten his clothes. “Didn’t I say fate was a bitch?”

“Not in so many words,” Jerome replied, resenting the fact they’d been interrupted just as they were getting somewhere, “but yeah. So, uh…I’m back. This is Five. I hear you’ve met.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Monroe,” Jeri said, and it startled Jerome to realize she’d discovered Five’s name since he’d left. “Mr. Monroe? Mx. Monroe? Help me out.”

“I don’t care which,” Five said, accepting Jeri’s hand, shaking it. “I never told you my name.”

“Well, see, I figured maybe I oughta look into you,” Jeri said, “especially since Joker here was gonna be lookin’. If _you_ needed a place to run, I thought maybe you’d come here. I’m a regular revolving door. So, what kinda trouble are you kids in—aside from the obvious?”

“The obvious?” Jerome echoed, and then glanced at Five, whose cheeks had darkened. “Oh.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time some schmuck in this town went and fell for somebody they were meant to kill,” Jeri chuckled. “Hell, I’m relieved. You look good together. What can I do to help?”

Five started to explain the situation. Jerome kept an arm around Five’s waist the whole time, and Five leaned into him.

With the story laid out, Jeri wouldn’t hear of letting them leave. She ordered Chinese take-out and told them to eat it while she went down to play another set. Five was a pickier eater than he’d been at the bunker, fussing about onions and peppers.

Jerome ate the stuff Five didn’t want, unable to think of a time he’d felt so calm. He wasn’t perpetually starving anymore, so that particular stress was off the table. Not that he’d been starving at the bunker, but he'd been anxious.

An hour later, Jeri came back and said she’d been delayed by Tabitha from over at the Sirens, who was following up on a lead that Jerome had been spotted. Jeri took them further into the apartment, showed them to a bedroom, and told them to stay put.

“There’s stuff in the bathroom cupboard, but I wouldn’t count on spare toothbrushes,” she said.

“Don’t worry, we brought some,” Five said earnestly, indicating their backpacks. “Thanks.”

Five took longer getting cleaned up than Jerome had. When he came back, Jerome sat up in bed, no longer embarrassed that he hadn’t bothered to put any clothes back on. He felt like he’d never seen Five naked in this much light, and it stole his breath.

“I found this,” Five said quietly, climbing into bed beside him. He put the tube of unscented lotion in Jerome’s hand, his eyes questioning. “I didn’t know if you meant…and I thought, I mean, since everyone’s after us…”

Jerome leaned in, kissing him slow and deep. “Yeah, that thing I said earlier—I meant ASAP.”

It was worth every moment of discomfort to feel Five’s heat push inside him, feel the damp, smooth skin of Five’s chest pressed against his back.

Five ran his fingertips up the underside of Jerome’s cock—light, exquisite torture that resolved itself into sheer, blissful relief when he finally wrapped his hand fully around Jerome and pumped in time with his thrusts.

It was worth every moment of wonder to hear Five whine in his ear, low and wrecked, _Gonna come, Jerome, fuck, I’m so close, Jerome—!_ He shuddered, sobbing with each pulse of his release. Lacking knowledge of pain, pleasure seemed to ruin him.

“Princess,” Jerome groaned, stilling Five’s hand, entwining their fingers as he spilled in Five’s palm. He swore it hadn’t felt like this the first few times, so raw and piercing his whole body shook. “ _Fuck_ , keep doin’ that, just keep— _Five_. Me too.”

In the stillness afterward, Five nuzzled the back of Jerome’s neck, clinging to him tightly. He seemed tense, suddenly, as if there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t know how. Articulacy was often a struggle for both of them.

Jerome wiped Five’s hand on the sheet and drew it up to his mouth, tenderly kissing the back. He hadn’t expected he’d ever want to have this, let alone _actually_ have it. Adages be damned, because having was better than wanting.

“I dodged your question a week or so ago,” Jerome sighed, shifting onto his back. There wasn’t as much mess as he would’ve expected, but there hadn’t been on Five’s part any of the times they’d done this. Down to Five’s difference again, maybe.

Five nodded, shifting into the curve of Jerome’s arm, twining their legs as he squirmed closer.

“The first time…” He made a distressed sound and squeezed Jerome tightly. “I shouldn’t have…”

There was a point past which, in the face of this second chance, Jerome couldn’t ignore the whisper at the back of his mind that maybe fate was a real thing—and, for once, it didn’t hate his guts. He felt _actually_ happy, not a forced facsimile thereof.

“No no no, baby boy,” Jerome murmured, “baby girl, my pretty baby.” He sucked in his breath and kissed Five’s forehead, smoothing back his damp hair, squeezing him right back. “I love you, Five. Got it?”

“Love you, too,” Five whispered, starting to tremble with disbelieving tears. “Jerome, I wish…”

“You wish what, precious?” Jerome asked, tilting Five’s chin up. “I wanna make it come true.”

“Wish we could always be like this,” Five said, hiccupping on tears, “but what if we don’t…”

“Make it?” Jerome asked, stroking Five’s hair. “If we don’t, at least we’ll die together, I guess.”

That seemed to calm Five. His shoulders shook less, and he pressed his forehead to Jerome’s.

“Promise me,” he said quietly, stroking Jerome’s hair in turn. “Promise me it’ll be like that.”

Jerome kissed Five. “Till death do we—wait, _nah_. We’ll never part, princess. Pinkie swear.”


	11. Bad Hand

Jeremiah was reading the _Gotham Gazette_ when Bruce’s phone started to ring. He sighed, tossed the paper on the floor, and scooted down to slide an arm around Bruce’s dozing form beneath the covers. Bruce didn’t stir until Jeremiah kissed his neck.

“They’re going to leave voicemail,” Jeremiah cautioned, preventing Bruce from pulling the covers over his head. “You _hate_ voicemail.”

“Fine,” Bruce muttered into the pillow, and then swiped his phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”

Whoever it was, they had Bruce’s attention inside a minute. Jeremiah watched Bruce sit up and pull a frown, just listening to whomever was speaking rapidly into his ear. The caller’s monologue sounded like a lot of information.

“Thank you,” Bruce said. “I appreciate that you contacted us instead of giving them what they wanted in exchange. Understood. We’ll retrieve them.”

“Let me guess,” Jeremiah sighed, staring morosely at the ceiling. “Nygma tracked them down?”

Bruce set the phone aside, flopping back down beside Jeremiah. “The Sirens did. Tabitha Galavan went to Celestial Garden to verify some intel. She suspected the proprietress was hiding something, so Barbara Kean contacted Oswald to let him know Jerome had turned up at their place not that long ago, asking for an introduction to Jeri. Remember what Jim said the night we were at the station and Five brought Jerome in?”

“Unfortunately,” Jeremiah replied. “Penguin believes their guess is correct? Do you believe it?”

Bruce nodded grimly. “If Jerome got help from Jeri before, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask again.”

They dressed and ate faster than they would have liked, earning a sour glance from Alfred on their way out. If he was miffed at not having been asked to drive them, he ought to have said as much. However, Jeremiah understood why Bruce felt this task was theirs alone.

After bribing Celestial Garden’s daytime security detail to get them inside, Bruce led Jeremiah to the back of the empty club and up the stairs.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door was wearing a black velour bathrobe over her rumpled tee and sweats. She had a mug in one hand, and her short bleach-blond hair stuck out in every direction. After a couple sips of coffee, she broke into a grin.

“I’ll be damned! Look at you,” Jeri said, opening the door wider, beckoning Bruce inside. “All grown up.” She glanced at Jeremiah, admirably suppressing her double-take. “I guess the smack J talks is true. Subtract those glasses and scar up your face…uncanny.”

“Jerome is here, then?” Bruce asked, cutting right to the chase. “Did he happen to bring—”

“How ’bout I let you find out for yourself,” Jeri said, turning, indicating they should follow.

Jeremiah hung back, well behind Bruce, while Jeri led them to a halt before a closed door.

“Good luck,” Jeri said, rapping on the door before retreating. “You’re sure gonna need it.”

That left Bruce and Jeremiah standing alone in front of the door. Stepping closer, morbidly curious, Jeremiah tilted his head to listen. There was rustling within, most likely bedclothes on skin. The one disgruntled sound Jeremiah could detect was recognizably Jerome’s, and Five responded loudly enough for his words to be distinct: _I’ve got it, stay here_.

After listening to Five’s footsteps making a noisy circuit of the room, Jeremiah jumped back when the doorknob turned and the door shuddered open a fraction. Five scowled out at them, his hair a wild mess. His kimono, hastily tied, hit at mid-thigh. Disturbing, to grasp part of why Jerome was so enamored—at least at the level of aesthetic attraction.

“Oh,” Five said, his tone flat and disaffected. “It’s you. We’re really tired. What do you want?”

Jeremiah resisted the urge to shout at Jerome like he might have done if they were in the bunker.

“You’re not safe here,” Bruce said, impressively calm and reasonable. “There are rumors of people putting out bounties on—well, on Jerome’s head, anyway. We’re taking you to Wayne Manor. You’ll have everything you need.”

“Everything you _want_ , even,” Jeremiah added, at this point speaking from experience.

“Tell ’em we’re not interested in what they’re selling!” Jerome shouted grumpily from within.

Five raised his eyebrows at Bruce—a silent, brazen challenge—and then shifted his unnervingly canny glance to Jeremiah. He was intimidating in a way Bruce wasn’t, all sharp edges and no polish.

“I’m surprised you’re even here,” Five said coolly. “Why do you care what happens to us?”

 _This is a test_ , Jeremiah thought. It was obvious Five wanted to verify Jeremiah’s sincerity.

Throughout all of this, Bruce remained silent. He curled his hand around Jeremiah’s wrist.

“I care because I can’t let this happen again,” Jeremiah said, loud enough for Jerome to hear. “I can’t just…can’t just _hide_ and sell you out again.”

After about half a minute in which Five continued to stare at Jeremiah without blinking, the mattress behind him creaked. Jerome came up behind Five, thankfully in a pajama-set, opening the door a bit wider. He slid an arm around Five’s middle, pulling him close.

“You make a compelling case,” Jerome said with mock-severity, “but what about my baby?” He kissed Five’s cheek, and Five leaned into the contact, eyes finally closing. “D’you care whether or not—”

“I’m not selling out either of you!” Jeremiah snapped. “ _We’re_ not selling out either of you!” He gasped for breath, and Bruce shifted his grasp down to Jeremiah’s hand, twining their fingers. “Do you honestly think I would’ve given you run of my safe-haven? Let you give security access to a total stranger? We…look, we don’t have time for this. Harley is—”

“With Strange, we think,” Five said, expression easing into objectivity. “Using her to get to Jerome.”

“Yes,” Bruce said quietly. “I agree. That’s the most likely scenario. With any luck, she’s still alive. From what I remember, Strange isn’t known for killing his victims, at least not right away. He toys with them.”

“I don’t call that luck,” Five shot back, suddenly and incandescently angry. “She’ll suffer.”

“ _Shhh_ , princess,” Jerome murmured in Five’s ear, rocking him where they stood. “I don’t like it any more than you, but I think we gotta cooperate.”

“Go wait with Jeri while we pack,” Five ordered, as imperious as Jerome’s pet-name for him.

Jeremiah didn’t say anything, just turned and went back the way they came, dragging Bruce.

Clearly amused by what she’d heard, Jeri sat them down on her battered damask sofa and served them shockingly competent French-press dark roast. She chattered at them incessantly—the weather, how business was going, how good of them it was to _care_.

Jerome and Five didn’t emerge for a little over an hour, but when they did, they were fully dressed and put-together. Five’s worn-out gray Pusheen backpack had ears and whiskers, at odds with the effortless punk-grunge elegance of his attire. Jeremiah recognized the rucksack Jerome carried as his own, but his formal ensemble was just this side of tacky.

“Your tie makes my head hurt,” Jeremiah remarked, hoping Jerome would perceive his relief.

“Then update your glasses,” Jerome parried dryly, folding his gloved hand over Five’s forearm.

While Five exuded disdain, Bruce was getting increasingly more impatient. “We need to go.”

“I hope you didn’t park somewhere too visible,” Jeri sighed, rising to lead the four of them out.

Alfred looked even less thrilled on their return than when they’d left. He took surprising initiative when Jerome and Five made a bee-line for the stairs, blocking their path. Five looked so offended it was comical.

“Right, backpacks on the floor, over there,” Alfred said, pointing sternly. “I’ll see they make it upstairs to your rooms—”

“Room,” Five said defensively. “You’re not separating us. We want a bigger one than I had the first time I was here.”

Alfred glanced at Bruce, who gave the subtlest of weary nods. “Right you are, then.” He gestured expansively down the hall, urging Jerome and Five ahead of him. “Nobody’s going anywhere till breakfast’s been had.”

“This’ll be worse than the proverbial nightmare Thanksgiving dinner,” Jeremiah said under his breath as they followed Alfred, Five, and Jerome to the kitchen. “Just watch. Jerome will challenge me for the orange juice.”

Almost disappointingly, not much happened. Jerome and Five didn’t speak to anyone but Alfred and each other—the former to make outlandishly specific food demands, the latter to further drive their relationship status home.

Before Bruce even had the chance to subtly scoot Jeremiah’s pillbox to him beneath a napkin for his morning psych-meds dose, Five got up without explanation, dashed out, and returned with Jerome’s rucksack. He dug out three prescription bottles Jeremiah recognized, shook multiple of each into his palm with precision, and handed them purposefully to Jerome.

“You can take these with coffee, right?” Five said. “I’ve only seen you take them with water.”

“Sure can,” Jerome said, and then swallowed the pills. “You take good care of me, precious.”

After breakfast, just as all four of them retired to the living room, by tense agreement, for a conversation, someone rang at the front door. Bruce told Alfred to see them in, apologizing to Jeremiah, Jerome, and Five. Before he could leave the room, the arrival entered.

Selina took one look at all of them and froze. She waved the envelope in her hand at Bruce.

“I was gonna say, this ain’t a social call—but now it’s even less of one,” she said. “Zsasz gave this to me. Some street kid gave it to him this morning, sayin’ he ought to pass it along to me because it’s meant for delivery at Wayne Manor.”

Inexplicably, Five had gotten to his feet and, trance-like, approached Selina and Bruce. Jerome followed him, concerned, so Jeremiah did the same.

“Did Zsasz show it to your employers?” Bruce asked cautiously. “For that matter, did you?”

“Uh, no?” Selina said. “Boss doesn’t have time for kids’ games. Who’d you piss off this time?” 

“Nobody I’m aware of,” Bruce said, casting his nervous glance on Five. “If you knew what was going on, you might have shown it to him. I’m amazed Zsasz didn’t, given Penguin must keep him in the loop.”

“Yeah, well, Zsasz values his own hide too much for that,” Selina said, eyeing all of them. “You really did collect the whole circus, huh, Bruce?” 

“Hey, Five never had any part in that,” Jerome said warningly. “Don’t slander my baby.”

Without warning, Five snatched the envelope out of Selina’s hand, and then glared at Bruce.

“I don’t want her here,” he said emphatically, his tone laced with unexpected emotion. “I don’t want a fight. Tell her to go.” With that, he spun on his heel and tore off, down the long hall, and ducked into the library.

“I dunno what that was about, but it’s on you,” Jerome said to Bruce, and went to join Five.

Selina put both hands in the air, shaking her head at Bruce and Jeremiah as she backpedaled.

“How ’bout I keep Alfred company while you guys go duke this out,” she suggested, and fled.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jeremiah hissed, breaking into a dash, knowing that Bruce would follow him.

They got there none too soon. Five was at Bruce’s desk, rummaging through drawers with the letter in hand, while Jerome nervously looked on.

“What are you looking for?” Bruce asked, approaching slowly, hand extended. “Give it to me.”

“This,” Five said, finally coming up with a letter opener. He handed both items over unhappily.

Bruce used the letter opener to slice through the top of the envelope. He removed the quartered paper inside, letting the other items fall onto the desk. As he unfolded it, Jeremiah stared.

Scanning the page several times, Bruce was seemingly as stunned as Jeremiah at what it said.

“You could cut the suspense with…uh, that thing,” Jerome said, gesturing at the letter opener while he collected Five from the far side of the desk, an arm around his shoulder. “What gives?”

“It’s addressed to me,” Jeremiah said, hating himself for what he was about to paraphrase, taking hold of the letter. “It’s asking…” He swallowed. “It’s asking me and Bruce to escort Five, who knows the way, to the tunnels leading from Arkham to Indian Hill. If we do that, it…says we can have Harley back unharmed, and Jerome will no longer be a target. There’s no signature.”

Glassy-eyed and expressionless, Five lunged at Jeremiah, wrestling the letter from his grasp.

“This is Strange’s handwriting,” he said vindictively. “I saw it on charts all the time, especially my own. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

Jerome put himself between Five and Jeremiah in a heartbeat, his expression turning predatory.

“If you think for even a second I’m gonna let you hand him over, brother— _un_ think it.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything!” Jeremiah retorted, furious. “I can’t! The situation’s so complex at this point that for you to even _suggest_ —”

“We need to consider our options,” Bruce cut in. “Trading Five for Harley isn’t one of them.”

“Another thing is,” Jerome continued, ignoring Bruce as he advanced on Jeremiah, “you didn’t see how hard it was for Five to get in that elevator the night we got to your place. If you think I’m gonna let you take Five underground even just to help us kill the bastard and rescue—”

“What choice do we have?” Jeremiah demanded. “If we go down without enough back-up—”

“Oswald and Edward have pledged their assistance,” Bruce said tersely, “and we promised—”

“Shut up, _shut up_!” Five shrieked, so desolate that they all fell silent. “I can’t do this again,” he seethed, flinging the note down as he stormed out.

Jerome glanced from Jeremiah to Bruce—as if he couldn’t even remember why they’d been arguing. Jerome patted Jeremiah on the shoulder, too hard to be one-hundred-percent reconciliatory, and left the room. He started calling after Five as soon as he was in the hall.

“Why did Five say he can’t do this again?” Jeremiah asked Bruce, sinking down on the nearest leather sofa. “What does he mean?”

Bruce came over and took a seat beside Jeremiah, his demeanor far too grave for comfort.

“The second time Five was here, installed by the Court after they’d drugged and abducted me, he tried his best to get close to Selina. It…didn’t work out for either one of them. They got into a fight when Selina found him out. Right here in the library, even. Things got messy, violent. Alfred intervened, so Five wounded both of them and fled. We were able to find Five and confront him after I escaped from the Court—Alfred and I, anyway—but he got away. Jumped off a building, survived it, and ran off. That was the last we’d seen of him until now.”

“Next time I think I’ve had a bad time of it,” Jeremiah said, “I’ll think of what you just told me. That said, I really need a drink.”

Bruce cracked a tired smile, beautiful in spite of the strain. “We can bring the decanter upstairs. Alfred might mind, but…”

“It’ll make me feel better,” Jeremiah said, getting to his feet, “so I can make _you_ feel better.”

“That doesn’t solve our problem,” Bruce said, pulling out his phone as he followed, “but we can make plans tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to text the news to Edward. He’ll get a head-start, maybe even help Oswald’s crew track Strange down by morning.”

Bruce’s room was far enough from where Alfred had put Jerome and Five that they didn’t run the risk of invading their guests’ privacy. They drank and talked for a while, subdued, and then fucked with a quiet intensity that left Jeremiah speechless. He watched Bruce sleep for a while, wondering if, at the opposite end of the hall, Jerome was also watching a wrung-out, comatose Five.

After spending most of the night restless, Jeremiah woke late to find Bruce still asleep. He lay motionless, staring miserably at the ceiling. It took a full ten or fifteen minutes to realize that the creaking movement he could hear in the hall was someone pacing—and not just _anyone_.

Jeremiah slipped out of bed and put on his robe, cautiously approaching the door. He opened it.

Jerome stopped in his tracks, red-rimmed eyes wide, frantic. He held a wrinkled piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” Jeremiah whispered, gesturing in annoyance. “You’ll wake Bruce and Five.”

Jerome laughed, short and hysterical. “Can’t wake him if he’s not here,” he said, eyes glistening.

“I don’t understand what you’re even talking about,” Jeremiah hissed, grabbing Jerome’s elbow.

Jerome folded quicker than a bad hand of cards. He hung on Jeremiah’s shoulder, his next choked, involuntary fit of laughter turning to tears.

“I’ll rescue her if I can. If not, if I stay, maybe Strange will let her go,” Jerome sobbed, and Jeremiah abruptly realized he was quoting what was on the paper. “Never doubt that I love you, _but_ —how could I get between brothers?”


	12. Dream On

Jerome couldn’t process Jeremiah’s attempts at reassurance. They stood motionless in the middle of the hall, locked in a stiff-limbed embrace that Jeremiah had taken charge of. However, the sound of Bruce’s bedroom door creaking the rest of the way open _did_ register.

“What’s going on?” said Bruce’s voice, disturbingly similar to Five’s when he was groggy.

“That note on the floor,” Jeremiah said, each word vibrating through Jerome’s tight chest.

Some rustling indicated that Bruce had done as he was told by implication. “He _didn’t_ …”

“He did,” Jeremiah said, finally giving Jerome’s back an awkward pat before releasing him.

Bruce held the note out to Jerome, expression helpless. “Five’s gone? Nowhere in the house?”

“Call me crazy,” Jerome sniffed contemptuously, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “but I’m takin’ him at his word. If you wanna search…”

“No,” Bruce insisted, letting Jerome take the note when he made a grab for it. “That would waste too much time. I need to contact Penguin.”

Something in Jerome snapped. His frustration with Bruce welled up, bleeding from beneath his tongue.

“You’re awful buddy-buddy with the guy whose black-market operations you were trying to foil.”

Jeremiah gave Jerome a perplexed look. “What the hell are you talking about? If you mean those disrupted deliveries of smuggled goods down at the docks last year, Valerie Vale’s series of reports said there was a…masked…”

Bruce looked so guilty that Jeremiah’s perplexity turned to disbelief. It was satisfying to watch.

“Yeah, bro,” Jerome said, patting Jeremiah’s chest as he pushed past both of them to go get dressed. “Loverboy here wasn’t just messin’ with that shit. He had some run-ins with _me_ after dark, too.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Bruce, who now looked livid. “During that little abduction stunt that got me locked back up? I pretended I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care that you kissed him! I already knew!” Jeremiah shouted after Jerome, who shut the bedroom door behind him just in time to hear Jeremiah address Bruce. “Promise me you won’t keep risking your…”

Jerome put on his clothes mechanically, hoping the other two would be onboard with swift departure. If not, then he was leaving without them. He slipped Five’s note in his back pocket, somehow comforted.

When Jerome finally made his way downstairs, Jeremiah and Bruce were waiting there, ready.

“How’s it feel to know you’re not one of the good guys?” Jerome asked Bruce, bending to double-knot his boots. “Is that why you were runnin’ around in that balaclava? Tryin’ to convince yourself—”

“Jerome, enough!” Jeremiah snapped. “We could chase your justifications, and Bruce’s, _and_ mine in circles all day.”

Jerome stood up, straightened his waistcoat, and put on his gloves. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he retorted. “What’s our play?”

“We’re meeting Oswald and Edward just up the road,” Bruce said. “We’re basically neighbors.”

While Jerome had spent plenty of time at Wayne Manor, he’d never had the pleasure of visiting Penguin’s residence. The Van Dahl mansion loomed as they got out of Bruce’s car, more atmospheric than Bruce’s estate could ever hope to be.

Penguin’s maid dressed more like a butler, which suited her no-nonsense manner and imposing physical presence. She curtly introduced herself as Olga and left them standing in the vast, foreboding entryway. There were paintings and antiques everywhere.

“D’you think they’ll give us a tour?” Jerome whispered to Jeremiah. “We could use your architecture-nerd powers to convince ’em—”

“If you don’t keep your mouth shut, we’re going to get shot,” Jeremiah said through gritted teeth.

Olga returned with an entire entourage. She followed Oswald and Edward at a deferential range, a shotgun propped over her shoulder. Jerome recognized the fourth individual on-sight.

Victor Zsasz tapped Oswald on the shoulder as they came to a halt, his loud whisper comical.

“Boss, explain what Bruce Wayne is doing here? And why you let him bring the sideshow?”

“Bruce Wayne is my guest, Victor,” said Oswald, offering Bruce his hand, which Bruce shook. “As for this gentleman—” he gestured to Jeremiah, whose hand he shook as well “—he’s with Bruce, and therefore my guest as well.” He turned his gaze on Jerome, hesitating, a flicker of fear perceptible behind his eyes. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Nope,” Jerome agreed, offering Oswald his hand. “I, uh, understand why the power outage back when you were mayor must rankle. In my defense, I’d just come back from the dead with—” he gestured meaningfully at his face “—and wasn’t thinkin’ too clearly, y’know?”

Edward stepped forward and took Jerome’s waiting hand, shaking it without hesitation.

“Our hope is that this’ll be a mutually beneficial endeavor, Mr. Valeska,” he said curtly.

“As long as I get my princess back,” Jerome said, “I don’t care what you do with Strange.”

“So, wait,” Oswald blurted, unabashedly confused. “Ms. Harley Eccles is _your_ —?”

“Ms. Harley _Quinn_ is not my anything,” Jerome warned, “except maybe confidante.”

Bruce and Jeremiah exchanged guilty glances, and then Bruce spoke. “It’s complicated.”

“Am I to understand there’s someone else who needs rescuing?” Edward said. “When you texted this morning, you only mentioned you’d received definitive intel that Strange was holding Ms. Quinn at Indian Hill. What aren’t you telling us?”

“The person Jerome was meant to kill for Strange is also being held,” Jeremiah said hesitantly.

Zsasz’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hey, boss—that kid I was tellin’ you about at the Foxglove, maybe?”

“What part of keep mouth shut do you not understand,” Olga muttered. “Is amateur mistake.”

Oswald closed his eyes, clenching one hand on his cane and the other at his side, incensed.

“You mean to tell me,” he said, “that instead of doing away with this person, which I assumed was the implication, Jerome…got _involved_ with…”

“His name’s Five, and I don’t like your tone,” Jerome said, ready to draw his gun if necessary.

“I shouldn’t have left that out,” Bruce admitted. “Five’s the so-called clone Strange and the Court engineered, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“They must’ve trained Five the way they trained those assassins they had—Talons?” Zsasz cut in. “He was so good Lucy used him as her personal bodyguard most of the time. Hell, I tried to recruit him to my crew once, but he turned me down.”

“We need to stop wasting time!” Jeremiah burst out angrily. “My best friend’s life is at stake.”

“Then we go,” Olga said, bumping Oswald sternly in the back. “I ride with these boys,” she said, “to protect. Victor will stay with you.”

“Shotgun,” Zsasz said, pushing his way past all of them to get to the front door. “Ed can drive!”

The gates of Arkham were not a welcome sight. Bruce parked his Mustang behind Oswald’s and Edward’s sleek, dark Volkswagen. Olga had asked Bruce questions about the car for the entirety of the ride, which had removed the pressure of conversation.

As they got out of their vehicles, a fuss just beyond the gates was evident. Jerome recognized one of the voices and rushed forward.

Five broke free of the guards who’d been restraining him, rushing to Jerome. Through the bars, they clung to each other.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Five mumbled between kisses. “I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry—”

“ _Shhh_ , precious,” Jerome murmured, stroking the tears from Five’s cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t kill the guards. I wished that maybe...if I cooperated, you would be waiting.”

From behind them, there was stony silence except for Oswald’s barely-restrained, impatient huff.

“Mr. Harris,” he said stiffly, “and Mr. Pendleton. Just our luck you were on duty. Where did you catch…this one, and what was he doing?”

“Trying to sneak past security,” Pendleton said. “God knows why. Everybody else wants out.”

“This is undignified,” Edward said, so Jerome just held Five tighter. “Open the gates.” Once Jerome and Five had stepped back, and the guards had complied, Edward addressed the guards again. “There are tunnels beneath the main complex that lead to Strange’s former facility at Indian Hill. We have reason to believe Strange has taken a captive there, and Mr.—Ms., Mx.— ”

“Monroe,” Five said, hiding his face against Jerome’s neck as he and Jerome held each other close. “Whichever.”

“—was attempting a rescue,” Edward concluded. “You’ll let us in. We have something of an arrangement, if you recall.”

Pendleton looked so angry his head might burst, but Harris just nodded, fearful.

“You’ll want to take this to Administration,” Oswald said smugly, leading the way. “Let them know that we’re not to be detained or disturbed. Once we’re in, believe me, you won’t even know we were there. Give Quimby my best.”

“I would’ve paid them,” Bruce whispered to Jeremiah as they filed up the bleak gravel drive.

“You’re not in charge,” Jeremiah hissed back, briefly squeezing Bruce’s hand, “and I’m glad.”

Jerome tightened his arm around Five’s shoulders, realizing that Five still trembled with rage and indignation. “Hey, you won’t be goin’ in alone.”

Five only nodded. He didn’t say another word until they were inside, at which point Edward took the lead and herded them all into C-block.

“You know how to get in?” Five blurted, watching Edward feel along the wall and flip open a hidden panel. “How?”

“Let’s just say I solved a puzzle or two back when I was in here,” Edward said, grinning with satisfaction as a segment of the wall creaked open. He hauled it back, gesturing at the now-exposed hidden elevator. “We’ll all fit, but it might be tight.”

Five marched in first, admirably determined, leading Jerome along by the hand. “This is why.”

“I know, sweet pea,” Jerome said, tucking them into the back corner as everyone else piled in.

There was nothing but darkness down below. Edward, Oswald, Olga, and Zsasz had come prepared with head-lamps. Five led the way without benefit of one. Not a single person in the party _didn’t_ have a weapon, Bruce and Jeremiah included.

Jerome stared as they moved through the space, observing what he’d missed in being there when he was dead. The thought that he and Five had been there at the same time, that he’d never even known, made him shiver.

“See that light?” Five whispered, pointing as they rounded the next bend. “The room down there is where they’d put...where they’d work on me, and Ms. Mooney, and others. They didn’t make me forget everything.”

“I know we don’t get dibs, but you’d better make sure I don’t shoot first,” Jerome muttered.

Jeremiah pushed past Jerome and Five, with a somewhat panicked Bruce following behind.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce hissed pleadingly, “what are you doing? We’re not the best-prepared to…”

“Dr. Strange?” Jeremiah called, voice echoing loudly in the subterranean stillness. “I brought him.”

Just then, the lights flickered around them, leaving the entire hall awash in sickly orange light.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Valeska,” crackled a calm, composed voice over the intercom, “that you coaxed your lover _and_ your brother to help you deliver. I’ll be sending Ms. Eccles out to you as a gesture of good faith. I trust you’ll find that I’ve treated her, as my former student, with utmost civility and care. Once she’s with you, please send Five through.”

The door at the end of the hall _whooshed_ open. Harley—dazed and disheveled, but unscathed—marched toward them, plucking the tape from her newly unbound wrists, rummaging in her skirt pocket. She set one finger to her lips and held up what she’d withdrawn in the other. It was a pen.

Ignoring Jerome’s blatant display of relief, Harley stepped up to Jeremiah. She mimed writing on her palm with the pen, gesturing to Jeremiah’s jacket. When Jeremiah did nothing, paralyzed, Harley reached inside his jacket and withdrew a tiny notebook. She wrote something.

 _BLUFFING_ , read Harley’s scrawl. _CAN’T SEE, ONLY HEAR. 2 OF U WALK FORWARD, RIGHT # OF FOOTSTEPS. NOT J + 5. WHOEVER CAN KILL QUICK_.

Jerome assumed that meant he and Five should stay out of the action. As disappointing as that sounded, he whisked Five around—pressing him up against the wall, shielding him as Oswald and Edward took their cue, striding forward.

Zsasz positioned himself to cover Jerome and Five, with two firearms drawn. Olga got between Bruce and the path on which her employers were set, perhaps knowing Bruce was the one most likely to break form and try to play the hero. 

Apparently recognizing the risk, Jeremiah nodded to Harley. She disarmed Bruce and helped Jeremiah restrain him—just as Oswald opened fire on Strange, who’d emerged from the doorway in an attempt to flee. 

“I want to watch,” Five said, twisting out of Jerome’s embrace, dashing the short distance to where Edward was now standing over Strange’s bloodied, prostrate form. He glanced back over his shoulder and beckoned, grinning widely at Jerome. “C’mon.”

“I only ever tried to help you,” Strange panted, gazing upward as Jerome joined Five, Oswald, and Edward, the four of them closing in around him. “I needed them to bring you here for your own safety, Five. I knew there’d be no other way to persuade—”

“If I’m dying,” Five said, “it’s not happening to me faster than it’s happening to anyone else.”

“Still with the manipulation and lies, I see,” said Oswald, looking to Edward with vicious glee.

“I’m not sure what you expected,” Edward said dryly, cocking his pistol, taking careful aim.

Strange’s breathing had taken on a wet, rasping gurgle thanks to the bullet wounds in his chest.

“Jerome,” he wheezed, somehow still calm and composed, “he’ll bring you no end of grief.”

Jerome slid his arm around Five, pulling him in close, and made a show of kissing his cheek.

“Who?” he asked innocently, smoothing back Five’s hair. “Princess? I’ll take my chances.”

“Touching as this reunion is, I think we’ve had enough,” Edward said, and pulled the trigger.

Five tapped the side of Strange’s head with the toe of his combat boot—and then kicked harder, satisfied when Strange didn’t stir. He took Jerome’s hand and started to lead him back toward the elevator.

“That wasn’t necessary,” said Bruce, somewhere behind them. “I wasn’t going to stop anyone.”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Jeremiah replied vehemently, which Jerome could tell was only half the truth. “Harley acted at my behest.”

“Dream on,” Harley said to Jeremiah, but her tone was fond. “I woulda done it anyway. Too many bullets is always askin’ for disaster.”

“I have better excuse,” Olga said, her tone suggesting a shrug. “Is that you always interfere.”

“Didn’t take me long to put two and two together,” Zsasz chimed in. “You weren’t subtle.”

“My business suffered considerably, Mr. Wayne,” Oswald chided, “but I’ll consider us square.”

Jeremiah inhaled and exhaled to keep calm. “This is why I don’t want you to keep doing it.”

“All right,” Bruce said, the sudden scuffle suggesting they’d stopped. “You have my word.”

Jerome squeezed Five’s hand, swinging their arms between them. “Are you happy, princess?”

Five glanced sidelong at Jerome, his smile sly and lovely. “Yes,” he said. “You came for me.”


End file.
